


Between the Lines

by starkyd7



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, Femslash, One Shot Collection, Stargaryen, Stargaryen Soulsborne Crossovers Included
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 40,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4608099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkyd7/pseuds/starkyd7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of standalone Arya/Daenerys drabbles and one-shots unrelated to my other written works. Always open for requests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dark Passenger

 

**In which Daenerys comes face to face with Arya’s dark side, and realizes that she’ll never quite be able to tame it.**

 

**_For TheVenerableCharlotte_ **

**........**

 

**Braavos -**

Daenerys shifted in the oversized bed, her mind still clouded with the fine wine and revelry that marked another evening of the annual celebration of the Uncloaking. Letting out a soft sigh, she reached an arm out to find the northern wolf she’d taken into her bed, only to be met with cool sheets beneath her skin. She turned, opening one hazy violet eye to find herself alone in the silken jumble of pillows, with the cover turned over where Arya should have been.

She sat up, quickly scanning the room. A cool breeze chilled her as it swept over her pale skin, and she noticed that the window was unlatched. She rose up out of bed and wrapped herself in Arya’s cloak, the wolf pelt hanging over her shoulders as protectively as the Stark herself often did, and opened the inn room door. Her feet fell softly on the sturdy wooden planks, and when her guards started to fall in line behind her she stopped them with a subtle raise of her hand. She made her way down the stairs with enough natural grace that the lumber made no echo in protest, and sauntered through the eastern exit that had been cleared and blocked off entirely in reserve for her and her royal escort. A turn of the iron lock, and the door to the narrow sidestreet opened easily.

A heavy fog lifted from the canals, misting the alley. She walked, soundless, between the tall stone walls that made up the upscale inns and taverns on either side of her, until she saw the blurred shadow of a hunched figure. She watched as the shadow rose to its feet while a second, unmoving form hung from its shoulders. With steps more sure and silent than her own, the figure bore its burden to the edge of the canal, and then arced a shoulder to cast it away with a muffled splash.

The shadow turned toward her, cool vapor still shrouding its features as it approached. She started to step back towards the door, clumsily reaching for the handle when the mist parted just enough for her to make out a familiar head of mussed brown hair and the loose shirt she’d unbuttoned herself only short hours ago. “Arya?” she whispered.

A few steps closed the last of the distance between them, and Daenerys could make out the steel eyes and angled features of her lover, spattered with crimson. “Arya, what did you just do?” she asked softly.

“You shouldn’t be out here, Dany,” Arya said with a gentleness that made her ache. “The streets of Braavos are dangerous this late at night. You know that. Let me take you back upstairs.”

Undeterred, Daenerys reached a hand to Arya’s face, brushing a choppy bang from her eye. “Arya,” she asked again, “what did you just do?”

She felt Arya’s hands lock around her waist. “Dany, you know what I just did,” she said tenderly, as if a soothing timbre could lull the horror of it away.

“But why?” Daenerys asked, biting her lip. “You’re not a Faceless Man anymore, Arya. Who was he?”

Arya reached up and cupped Dany’s cheek in her palm, while the arm that remained around the silver queen’s waist tightened its grip. “You know what I am, Dany,” she said in the same hypnotic tone. “And he didn’t matter,” she brushed a bloodied thumb over the curve of Daenerys’ full bottom lip, and Dany couldn’t resist flicking her tongue out over it before nipping it lightly, heedless of the copper tang.

_She’s a murderer_ , Daenerys thought to herself. _Like all the rest who swing their sword in my service. It’s in her, and not just because of the House she once served in. I will never be able to coax that dark shard from her heart._

She lost her breath as she felt herself being pressed to the heavy wooden door as the Stark’s lips claimed her own. “Don’t be afraid, Dany,” she heard Arya murmur against her lips. “I’d never hurt you.”

And she _was_ afraid, but not for the reason Arya thought.

She was afraid because she wasn’t sure if she loved the wolf in spite of her darkness… or because of it.


	2. The Alpha Dragon - Bloody Wolf 1

**In which two dragons wage a silent war for the affections of a wolf as much as a throne.**

**_For Arya Silvertongue_ **

 

**………**

**King’s Landing –**

She was the Bloody Wolf, so called for the single-handed butchery she had wrought on the Boltons who’d stolen her home. Some said she’d made a pact with demons to help her deliver Winterfell from their grasp, others said it was the cunning of the east; that she’d trained with the Faceless Men until she was able to poison every Flayed Man’s cup and slit the throats of the faint before they’d even had time to recognize their own slaughter. No matter what truths and fables may have passed through whispers, Arya Stark _had_ in fact taken the North, and the Northmen followed her with a loyalty that kings would envy.

She rode in to King’s Landing atop an angry beast that tore up the earth just for the sake of doing so, every step cutting and sharp as if the grass itself had done the North wrong. Bloodstained banners that served as trophies hung in folded loops from her saddle, the twisted fabric of Boltons, Freys and Lannisters all bound together with thick, braided locks of the late Queen Cersei’s hair. It was said that the banners had originally served as death shrouds for the great house lords she had killed to avenge her kin, pulled from their still-warm corpses to deny them any final dignity. A complement of twenty solemn men accompanied her, and when she swung down from her saddle to the grounds of the Red Keep, she commanded the attention of every noble and servant within eyeshot.

It was not because the Stark was particularly beautiful – that was her sister Sansa, the Red Wolf, so named for the fiery tresses that cascaded down her back – but she had a _presence_ that captivated. Short, unkempt northern-brown hair framed angled cheeks and hung over a steel-grey eye that marked her lineage. Light scars compassed her face, lending credence to the rumors of a personal blood sacrifice required to use the magics she’d learned over in Essos. She wore the traditional leather and chainmail of her countrymen, and carried a greatsword taken from the lifeless grip of Ser Ilyn Payne strapped across her back. When asked why she insisted on hauling such a heavy weapon when she lacked the frame to properly wield it, she would say that it was to bear the weight of those she’d lost when she was too young to protect them, and that she’d never be without it.

She’d been welcomed as a hero by the Silver Queen into the Red Keep, along with the other nobles who’d stood with her in force against the undead when they’d gathered at the Wall. Daenerys Targaryen had taken the seat of her birthright once her dragons had lain waste to the bulk of the unnatural horde that sought to annihilate the Seven Kingdoms, and now she had called those Kingdoms together to unite under a banner of celebration. For the next three days, grievances and rivalries would be set aside to appreciate the fact that they were all still alive to have such things. The near-massacre by the Others they had all suffered through had rendered them equals in that respect, if nothing else.

It was a grand gesture, but futile all the same. The fact that Daenerys was even in a position to make it was galling to some, none more than her questioned nephew, Aegon Targaryen. Aegon held Storm’s End under the banner of the Three-Headed Dragon, which some had readily rallied under and others had rebuffed as a sacrilege, denouncing both his claim and his blood. Daenerys herself doubted his relation, and too often he’d overheard the infuriating term ‘mummer’s dragon’. The Targaryens had warred amongst themselves before, and it seemed that it would only be a matter of time before history repeated itself and they did so again.

But it would not be tonight.

The man once known as Young Griff sat quietly with his Kingsguard Rolly, observing all those he hoped to one day rule. Wine and ale loosened both tongues and inhibitions, and he started learning the true temperaments of those he would soon be dealing with, for better or worse. Every so often when he glanced over at his aunt, he found to his annoyance that she appeared to be doing the very same thing – forcing him to acknowledge that she just might be more clever in all this than he’d wanted to give her credit for.

He sighed, allowing himself to indulge in a goblet of fine vintage, and let his eyes settle once again on the savage Stark that continually drew his attention. She was unlike any woman he’d ever seen before; a strange combination of furious strength and water-dancing grace that he found to be entirely mesmerizing. Her eyes cut through everyone in the room as easily as Valyrian steel, and when she looked at him he felt exposed in a way that was both frightening and exhilarating.

He knew then, that he wanted to have her for his own.

He watched as she drank with her men, calling them by name and eschewing any formalities they tried to address her with. He tried to imagine her in some of the silks the other highborn ladies wore for a moment, and though he was sure the right gown would cling to her _just so_ , he found the idea severely diminished his intrigue – he was surrounded by typically beautiful women every day. Her appeal was her unique exception, her character that so reminded him of the conquering warrior women within his own ancestry. And he decided he would tell her so, once he had enough liquid courage to quicken himself.

He drank too slowly.

For all of his keen observations throughout the evening, Aegon had missed that another pair of dragon’s eyes were falling on the Bloody Wolf, a gaze that lingered longer with each passing hour. And while Aegon had been contemplating his overtures, Daenerys was putting desire into action, murmuring into Arya’s ear while taking her hand and leading her out of the feast hall, towards the Royal Apartments she’d taken in Maegor’s Holdfast.

Aegon watched as they walked away, reeling from the realization that this marked the second war he had lost to Daenerys before it had even begun.


	3. Bloodlines

**AN: This was inspired by a quick conversation about GRRM’s likely canon direction with the whole R+L=J business. Consider this a warning – this is a ‘writer growth’ piece, and therefore much more emotionally uncomfortable than what I usually write.**

**For everyone who has requested to see me tackle the cruel push-pull dynamic of jealousy: this is part one, Arya’s jealousy. Dany will get her turn later in part two.**

**…….**

 

Blood. It was a strange thing.

Arya watched, entranced, as the slice on her palm bled. It looked no different from anyone else’s – and none would know the substance better than her, after years of expertly spilling it - but there, tiny and invisible within the dripping scarlet, was the living code that differentiated her from her brother.

_Cousin_ , she reminded herself. Six years knowing the truth of Jon’s lineage, and she still had to remind herself that he wasn’t her brother.

A few drops hit the floor.

Steel eyes trailing as crimson flowed down the shallow, threaded groove of her lifeline, it seemed entirely impossible that something so unremarkable was so _necessary_.

Necessary. That’s what Daenerys had told her in the Royal Apartments of the Red Keep years ago, when she was still just a turncloak assassin. ‘ _The prophecies are fulfilled, and he is of Targaryen blood. If I do not bear his children, I will single-handedly end my entire dynasty. Can you not understand that, Arya? I am the Queen. It is my duty to secure the future of Westeros, and to that end I must do whatever is **necessary**._ ’

Bitter, she’d mumbled something about being glad she could be of service in finding her Grace her consort before giving a mocking bow and walking out, unwilling to let Daenerys see her grief.

That night she’d sought out Varys to ask him if there was any service she could provide for the crown that required her unique talents as a Faceless Man. Little birds had whispered about the nature of her relationship with Daenerys to him the first night she’d ever spent in the Queen’s bed, so he did not question her sudden desire to leave. He sent her to Qarth, with instructions to investigate rumors that declared the House of the Undying was being rebuilt, and if they were true, to destroy it, along with anyone inside of it. _‘Threats like these are best killed while they still lay in the crib. I will tell her Grace that this could not wait, and apologize for denying her your presence at the royal wedding.’_

She had been grateful for the unexpected understanding of the Spider, even if it likely stemmed from concern over her causing some sort of disruption at the historic event.

The day Jon and Daenerys Targaryen wed, Arya had discovered truth to the songs of little eastern birds, and demolished the foundational construction of the new House of the Undying. As they shared their first night as man and wife, Arya wore a stranger’s face and slaughtered eight novice warlocks in the Queen’s name, piling their corpses over the smoking wreckage she’d wrought and laying a three-headed dragon banner atop the carnage as a warning. When she was finished, she washed the blood and soot from her hands and went to a tavern by the docks, where she danced with a serving girl who brought her Arbor gold until she could no longer stand.

When the sun rose, she booked passage back to Westeros, stinking of wine and the tavern girl’s cheap perfume.

The trip had given Arya the time she needed to stonewall, and when she returned to the Red Keep it was with all of the cool assassin composure she was known for. She was brought before the Small Council to give her report, and she made it a point to avoid looking at Dany – no, Jon’s _wife_ – even as she was commended for her success and decisive action.

Later that night Daenerys found Arya in the guest chamber she had been lounging in, and, pinning her hands above her head as she straddled the killer, bedded her with a demanding ferocity that left her both aching and breathless.

And guilt-stricken.

_‘Jon’s my brothe- cousin. You made your choice. I shouldn’t even be here.’_

_‘There is a difference between desire and duty. That’s something Jon understands as well as I do.’_

And so they carried on, because the part of Daenerys that was not the dutiful Queen loved the murderous Stark, and because the murderous Stark loved Dany so completely that she was unable to feel anything at all for any other.

The Queen bore her first child a year later. A strong, healthy son she named Rhaegar, for her brother dragon the people had loved and lost. Once Arya had presented gifts and congratulated mother and father both as was appropriate, she once again sought out Varys to serve the realm away from King’s Landing. He’d sent her to Volantis then, to kill a wealthy man who was behind another uprising against the Anti-Slavery laws Daenerys’ puppet rulers were still enforcing in the region.

Daenerys was furious once she’d returned, this time having figured out Arya’s pattern of avoidance.

_‘You are in my service. You swore an oath to me. You should not have left without my command!’_

_‘It was in your service that I left.’_

_‘It is not to be repeated. Ser Barristan Selmy passed away while you were gone – you will fill the void he left on my Queensguard. And you will **never** leave without my explicit instruction again.’_ And then the Queen had kissed her, hard enough to split her lip and leave her panting.

She still bore light scars on her shoulders from the intensity of Dany’s grip that night.

Daenerys’ will forged reality as it always had, and Arya swore another oath as a white cape was clasped over her shoulders, binding her as the Queen’s own until death. Even then she had not been sure of Daenerys’ motivations with the appointment – she _was_ a most capable fighter, having carved through a number of decorated knights in practice alone – but it also gave the Queen an absolute control over her, and precluded her from ever leaving the sometimes heartrending reality of their complicated relationship.

It made the wolf within her howl.

Two years later and Daenerys gave birth to her second child, a daughter she’d named Visenya. _‘For the warrior Queen you so loved growing up,’_ she’d whispered softly into Arya’s ear as her arms wrapped around the knight’s neck, weeks later in the White Sword Tower.

Arya wasn’t sure if she should even allow herself to believe it was true.


	4. Bloodlines - Part 2

**AN: Jealousy and possession – two sides of the same coin.**

 

**…….**

 

He stood before her in the Night’s Watch blacks she’d first met him in, a heavy satchel slung over his shoulder.

“You’re sure, then?” she asked him.

He nodded. “It’s time. The children are secure as your heirs without question, and I’ve fulfilled all that I promised.”

And he had. Jon Targaryen was still entirely Stark when it came to duty, and he had taken up the mantle of the father he never knew, honoring his bloodline obligation even as it cost him the one person he had always loved most.

“Where will you go?”

“Where I always go,” he replied, referring to the countless excursions he had made throughout the years under the guise of his appointment as her Military Commander.

“Back to Asshai, then.” _Back to Melisandre._

He just nodded.

“Will you say goodbye to Arya?” She asked softly.

Jon’s expression grew pained. “No,” he said. “It’s best that I don’t.”

Years of heartaches later, and that was still the worst of them all – knowing that she’d been the destructive catalyst that had shattered the bond Arya and Jon had shared their entire lives.

Daenerys bit her lip, as if she were a young girl again. “Jon, has Melisandre… has she ever looked into the flames, about… all of this?” _Has she seen hope, after everything? Has she seen forgiveness?_

“No, Daenerys,” he said, using her full name as he always did, unwilling to invoke the intimacy of ‘Dany’. “I’ve never allowed it.” He looked at her with his sad smile. “I’ve always been too afraid of what she might see.”

**…….**

 

Jon left King’s Landing, and Daenerys had her Master of Laws draw up all of the necessary documentation outlining their annulment. This had always been the agreement between them, and she had kept him from his love to play this empty role beside her for long enough.

He had given her two beautiful children, and she would give him his freedom.

At the age of five, Rhaegar was a strong lad with the telltale Targaryen hair of his mother, and the steel-grey eyes of a Stark. He had already taken to the sword, and it was not uncommon to find him mimicking Arya out on the training grounds she frequented when she was not on duty. Little Visenya often tagged along behind him, her platinum hair already falling in thick, loose waves around her shoulders at the tender age of three. She had the violet eyes of her mother, but wore a sober expression that was as north as heavy summer snows. When people looked at the two, they always saw Danaerys and Jon equally reflected in both of them.

But when Dany looked at them, she saw herself and Arya.

There was a time she had almost told Arya that, on one of the rare instances when the wolf had started to drift off before she did, her relaxed face and disheveled hair shaving the years away and leaving Dany to observe an uncanny resemblance to her sleeping son Rhaegar. She bit her tongue, though, knowing Arya would accept no such comparison and would instead snap bitterly about how she was _not_ her brother, regardless of the similarities in appearance that they shared.

It was a common argument between them, and one that Daenerys particularly hated. For better or worse (or much, much worse), there was no one in the Seven Kingdoms more intimately aware of the differences between the two Starks. It was one of the many reasons that although she _liked_ Jon, and _trusted_ Jon, she could never, ever love him.

He was not Arya.

The ferocity of her attraction to the younger wolf had locked her in the same primal grip as the dragon within occasionally had throughout the years, with aftermaths just as severe. The night after she’d given birth to Rhaegar, she’d found herself in a state of panic as she’d held him, remembering Viserys and the madness that had started taking him so very early on. Though Jon was there, she had found no comfort in his presence and had sent Missandei to summon Arya to her, only to find out that Arya was on a ship bound for Volantis.

Exhaustion had been the only thing that had smothered her wrath then, and she sent everyone but Missandei away, breaking down into frustrated tears in her friend’s arms as her newborn son slept. All of the logic and understanding in the world did not change the fact that in that moment she had wanted Arya, _needed_ Arya – and she was gone.

The mission in Volantis had taken far too long.

Doubt started to plague her, and she found that distressing imaginings consumed her spare moments. Maybe Arya had been wounded during the hit, and was recovering somewhere before she could sail home. Or maybe she was already sailing home, and her ship had been turned around in a storm. Or maybe… maybe…

Maybe she’d found someone else, and didn’t intend to return at all.

It was that last thought, more than any other, that drove her to force Arya into a white cloak.

She was Daenerys Targaryen, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and Protector of the Realm. And Arya Stark was _hers_. It would _not_ be questioned.

Jon wouldn’t be around forever.

Arya would be.

And to that end she would do whatever was **_necessary_**.


	5. The Bloody Wolf, Redux - Bloody Wolf 2

**In which a dragon envies the bonds of wolves.**

_For Arya Silvertongue_

**……..**

 

Daenerys strode briskly through the Northern encampment, her personal guard of Unsullied strategically enclosing her. Direwolf banners snapped in the wind, and she could smell the repulsive tang of burnt flesh and vegetation every time she drew a breath. It would be years before the scorched earth of Bronzegate healed from Drogon’s flames, and even then it would still bear its scars with weaves of thin, discolored grass.

She had decided she would rename the holdfast ‘Mummer’s Gate’, and leave its ruins as a broken monument to the deluded young man who’d stood against her, believing himself to be a dragon.

He had burned as quickly as the rest of them.

Victory over the Others had bought Westeros only a few months of tenuous peace as Aegon, the self-appointed Targaryen, had continued to press his claim for the Iron Throne. Newly-formed allegiances were tested on both sides as banners were called up, each house expected to rally behind the dragon they had sworn fealty to. In the end, most had sided with the Targaryen who had an unquestioned lineage and _actual_ dragons to show for it.

Those were wise decisions.

But fealty to a Queen did not dissolve long-standing blood feuds, nor did it quell the pre-existing rancor between enemy houses – a harsh lesson Daenerys was forced to learn now, as the two largest factions in her army began to turn on each other before Aegon’s charred body had even hit the ground. She was told it had been the Lannister soldiers who had struck first; ambushing the Bloody Wolf with crossbows as she returned with the other Northerners who had led the Vanguard. The wrath of the north fell heavily upon the gilded westerners in retaliation, and by the time Dany had arrived it was only the threat of Drogon’s deadly breath that had parted the tempestuous wolves and lions.

Though she forced her face to remain impassive, she felt her heart clench within her chest when she spotted the Stark’s command tent, centered amongst militant formations of heavy gray canvas, and sentineled by the hulking frames of two familiar direwolves.

_Nymeria. Ghost._

It was her brother Jon who had pulled her from the fray, then.

For once she found herself grateful for the intense bond the Stark siblings seemed to share.

She had met both Jon and Arya briefly during her time at the Wall, the two of them marshalling forces for ground assaults against the wights while Daenerys herself launched flaming aerial onslaughts. She had first noticed their synchronicity on the field of battle; her striking left as he arced right, two single swords deftly ploughing through more animated corpses than some entire units combined. He’d sweep, she’d lunge, and one by one frozen forms shattered as they danced destruction around one another, anticipating each other’s movements so precisely it bordered on precognition.

It was only after her first tryst with Arya at the Red Keep that she’d learned that Jon was in actuality only her half-brother, the product of an affair her father had with a woman he refused to ever name. The disclosure had surprised Daenerys, as Arya had never used Jon’s surname of Snow during her brief time in the North, and the resemblance between the two was so strong they could almost be mistaken for a northern rendition of Targaryen.

At first she had found the comparison amusing.

More and more lately… she found it disheartening.

What was initially intended to be _only_ that one tryst had quickly developed into something more as Daenerys discovered a surprisingly clever wit and charm beneath the Bloody Wolf’s brooding magnetism. Although her heart beat for the northern land she held, Arya’s years of exile in Essos gave a refined edge to her savagery that Dany found to be utterly intoxicating - lips that had ravished her pale skin would also sometimes whisper endearments on it in High Valyrian; hands that had held her down also eased her tensions with the pleasure of a skilled Lysene grip; and eyes that stripped her bare under a steel gaze often sought her when she needed them most, grounding her.

She had known she was in love long before she allowed herself to admit it. And it was that love that caused both Nymeria and Ghost to step aside and allow her into the northern command post – a courtesy which they did not extend to her Unsullied.

The Stark pavilion was a hub of agitation and barely restrained fury. Arya reclined on a field bed surrounded by barbarians in boiled leather, a bloodied bandage wrapped around the right thigh of her loose trousers, with another to match on her right hand. Two Lannister-red bolts lay beside a skin of blackstrap rum she gripped as fiercely as her sword, and it was only when she shifted up against the stack of pillows supporting her that Daenerys noticed the bolt still protruding from her chest, a thin trail of blood staining her white linen shirt.

Even in her wounded silence she had a presence that dominated the entirety of the space around her.

The northerners argued amongst themselves, speaking of war, retribution, and lion’s pelts, until Daenerys pulled back her hood and stepped through the throng. Silence descended as soon as she was recognized, and Winterfell’s soldiers bowed in deference. ‘ _Your Grace,_ ’ they each spoke in turn, immediately civilizing their hostile tongues.

“Your Grace,” Arya said, bowing her head and leading by example.

“May we speak?” Daenerys asked, phrasing her command as a question.

Arya gave a nod, and looked up at her men. “Set to the tasks I’ve given you, and bridle your anger for tonight. You’ll have my decision come morning.” She gave a wave of dismissal, and waited until the last man had stepped out of the tent before taking a long swig of rum.

“Forgive me, your Grace,” the Bloody Wolf said as she set the skin back down. “But Jon’s set out to fetch the Maester, and I’m told I’m in for a hell of a time when he gets here.” She glanced down at the bone-lodged bolt extending from her chest.

Daenerys took a knee at her bedside and held Arya’s face in her hands. She leaned in, kissing the wolf with tender affection. “ _I was so afraid when I’d heard what had happened_ ,” she said, slipping into her native Valyrian, confessing her concern as if it were a declaration of love.

“ _There was nothing to worry about,_ ” Arya said, slipping smoothly into her dialect. “ _Those Lannister whoresons can barely manage to aim for a chamberpot, nevermind anything else._ ”

Her voice was strong, but her breath caught every so often, and Daenerys knew the pain was far worse than the Stark was letting on.

“What is the decision you’re going to give your men in the morning?” Dany asked softly, back in the common tongue.

Arya took another drink of the blackstrap. “You already know the answer to that, Dany.” Her eyes narrowed. “There will never be peace between the Wolf and the Lion, and I intend to finish what my brother once started.”

_War_. The dust still unsettled from one, and the Bloody Wolf already sought another. _Dear gods._

There was a shuffle and clinking of chains as Jon led Maester Armen into the pavilion. Daenerys rose to her feet as they both addressed her with a respectful bow.

“Your Grace,” Arya said with a detached calm as she glanced at the black leather satchel Maester Armen held in his thin hand. “You should go now. This will be… unpleasant.”

She felt as much as saw Arya harden herself against her, and found herself stinging from the rebuff. She straightened, and put on a mask of regal dispassion as she left the tent and stepped back out into the open air. She passed the two direwolves who maintained their posts, then paused as she heard a set of soft footfalls behind her.

It was Jon.

Had he been so casually dismissed as well?

She felt a pang of guilt for hoping that he had.

“Forgive her, your Grace,” the former Night’s Watchman said. “It’s… she doesn’t want to appear weak in front of you.”

“Is that what she told you?” Daenerys asked.

“No. She didn’t have to tell me – I just know.”

Of course he did. Because he _always_ knew her.

Because she _trusted_ Jon. Trusted Jon enough to be vulnerable with him – to be _weak_ with him.

Trusted him more than her.

Daenerys’ face remained inscrutable. “It’s quite alright, Jon _Snow_ ,” she said, unable to resist the petty lash in the face of her own rejection.

“I promise you – I’ll take care of her. If this Maester so much as trembles, I’ll pull the bolt from her myself, then stick it in him.”

And she had no doubt that he would – if her own hand failed to strike first.

Daenerys tilted her head towards him in acknowledgement, then turned around and walked away, her Unsullied assembling around her once again, separating the dragon from the wolves around her.

 

**…………**

**AN: For those who wanted more closure on my ‘Bloodlines’ chapters – fear not. I will write more pieces in that particular mini-series as the muse and prompts collide.**

**The same goes for this one. The Bloody Wolf will ride again.**


	6. Services Rendered

**In which a dragon comes across something equally rare.**

**_For DaysOfFuturePast_ **

****

**……..**

 

It was her small council that had convinced her to seek the services of the Faceless Men to dispatch the fraud who claimed to be her nephew. While it was true that their assistance would come at a steep price, it would be near impossible to quantify how much _more_ would be lost if the upstart continued to press his claim to the Iron Throne unabated.

And Daenerys was growing weary of war.

When the young man had first presented himself, he was convincing enough. He had beauty that reflected the Targaryen lineage, that much was certain – though Daenerys also knew that this resemblance was commonly found in Lys, where the old blood of Valyria still ran strong. Those who had tutored him had done so well, and he delivered all of the right answers to her questions with a smooth charm that, she supposed, was intended to bring echoes of Rhaegar to the minds of all who could remember him.

She lacked this particular nostalgia.

She permitted him and a small retinue to stay at the Red Keep while her Maesters and advisors sought after the validity of his claims. As ravens flew and sparrows sung quiet songs, Daenerys decided to prove him another way – by bringing him to the sunny courtyard where her dragons often lay when they were not out hunting. Despite their wild temperaments, she knew for a fact that dragons _did_ recognize their own blood when it called upon them.

Viserion’s angry snap as Aegon took but one step in approach told her everything she had needed to know.

She let the imposter carry on in the Keep long after payment had been issued to the House of Black and White, allowing him to believe that old, thin trails that could prove his relevance were being followed. In his company, she smiled gracefully, and spoke as if his validation was of the utmost importance to her. Behind closed doors, however, she grew impatient. Months had passed since Tyrion had returned from Braavos, and she could only stall Aegon for so long before she would either have to sanction him through marriage, effectively nullifying her own rule; or denounce him and declare war.

Of the two, there was only one acceptable option. But Daenerys had paid a fortune to avoid having to make that call to carnage to begin with. It vexed her.

But not for much longer.

Appropriately enough, it was on a day of the Queen’s justice when word of Aegon’s fall broke through the Great Hall, putting an early end to the disputes and supplications that had been brought before her.

He’d been crossing the landings that bridged the high towers of the Keep as he so often did, looking down at the vast city that he believed would soon be his. His protector Rolly (Daenerys refused to refer to him as a Kingsguard, since that would be akin to admitting that Aegon truly was a King) and two guards had been only a few paces behind him when it happened, their grief evident as they prostrated themselves before the silver queen, prepared to face execution for the careless loss of their sworn liege.

Daenerys pardoned them, and sent each of them, along with the rest of Aegon’s entourage, back to Griffin’s Roost that same evening. Once she was assured that they were gone, she climbed the winding steps of the Tower of the Hand to discuss her dissatisfaction with Tyrion.

“He fell,” she said to the diminutive Lannister, exasperated. “After months of waiting, and needlessly exhausting my treasury, the Faceless Men didn’t even complete the task they were hired for – Aegon’s own poor footing ended him!”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said evenly as he poured the agitated Queen a goblet of wine. “Whatever happened up there around the turrets, I can assure you that Aegon did not just ‘fall’.”

“But his most loyal man witnessed it, with two others besides. Rolly _worshipped_ him, Tyrion, he never would have pushed Aegon, nor would he have hidden the truth if he’d seen someone else do it.”

“Precisely, your Grace. You received _exactly_ what you paid for – a skillful murder made to look like an accident, complete with just the right witnesses to ensure that your involvement would never be suspected.” The imp raised his glass to Daenerys’ in cheer. “Here is to the Many-Faced God, and his role in the uncontested continuation of your rule.”

Unconvinced, Daenerys let out a heavy sigh before taking a drink. Perhaps it _was_ possible that the Faceless Men were that efficient, but she found it unlikely. Then again, her immediate problem was resolved, and even if she _had_ been swindled it didn’t change the tide of good fortune that had just washed her way.

Aegon was gone, and all without increasing the widow count even further across Westeros.

She left Tyrion’s quarters, and, suddenly finding herself gripped with a morbid curiosity, climbed to the very top of the Tower of the Hand and out on to the moonlit landing that Aegon had taken his last steps on hours ago. She followed the narrow walkway around the curve of the tower, then came to an abrupt halt as she nearly strode into a dark clad figure standing on the edge, gazing down at the courtyard far below.

Startled, Daenerys backed away a few steps as the unfamiliar figure turned to face her. The Queen tried to place the choppy dark hair and the penetrating gray eyes before her, but they stirred no memory.

This was not someone in her service.

Then she understood. She had not been cheated after all.

“You… are the one they sent, aren’t you?” She asked the stranger. “From Braavos.”

The young man – or was it woman? It was hard to tell in the pale light – refused to respond to her question, instead looking back down to the courtyard.

“They all say you have dragons,” a quiet voice finally broke from the shadow. “The first real dragons in over a century.” A woman then, judging by the lack of baritone in her words. If Daenerys didn’t know any better, she could have sworn that she saw the hint of a smile tug at the stranger’s mouth as gray eyes locked on to Drogon’s sleeping form down on the grounds far below.

“It’s true,” Daenerys said, “and all three are my children, as much as anything else.”

“They also say that you ride them,” the stranger said, still transfixed by her largest son.

“Drogon permits me, when the mood strikes.”

“Like Rhaenys and Visenya,” the shadow said softly.

“You know of my ancestors, then?” Daenerys couldn’t keep a note of surprise from her voice. Although she wasn’t exactly sure just how she would picture a member of the Faceless Men if asked, she knew it was not the androgynous, soft-spoken student of history she found before her now.

This person was far too human to reconcile with her mental images of murder for hire.

The girl turned to her then, and Daenerys could see that she was far younger than she imagined an assassin to be as well – possibly even younger than herself, though not by much. “I dreamed of dragons when I was a child,” she said in the same soft voice she’d invoked the names of Targaryen queens with only moments ago. “They don’t believe that I remember,” her brow furrowed slightly, “but I do.”

Feeling an inexplicable kinship towards the assassin, Daenerys found herself offering hospitality that Barristan Selmy would later chide her for. “Would you like to see them? You would have to stay at the far edge of the courtyard, but it’s still much closer than the view from up here.”

“That’s a very kind offer, your Grace.” Now there was more than just a hint of a smile.

Daenerys carefully turned herself around, intending to lead the killer back down into the Tower of the Hand, and down the flights of stone stairs that would eventually lead to the greenery below. She took a few steps, then looked over her shoulder, only to find the stranger gone – as if she’d never really been there at all.

She stared at the moonlit landing for long moments after.


	7. Uncaged

**AN: Taking quite an AU spin with this one. Jon accepted Stannis’ offer of legitimization and became a Stark, rallying the North to support the ‘Azor Ahai’ reborn in both the fight against the Others and for the Iron Throne. Also aging up both Arya and Dany HBO-style, so we’re looking at approx. 16 and 20 here.**

 

**In which a dragon is caged, while a wolf holds the key.**

**_For prplmunky_ **

****

**…….**

 

The northern blood of Ned Stark ran hot and true in his youngest daughter’s veins, and inevitably it became No One’s undoing.

For centuries it had always fallen upon the Starks to execute deserters of the Night’s Watch, and even as a young girl scarce able to walk, Arya had known what it meant every time her father strapped Ice to his back while his face drew into harsh, grave lines. As her brothers had grown older, he would take them with him to witness these sober affairs, determined to teach them the old way that had been passed down through generations:

_‘The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.’_

He had never once brought Sansa or Arya.

But Arya had never needed him to.

Dareon had been the first deserter she’d executed, with her Needle in lieu of Ice and a damp alley for an executioner’s block. The defector had spent many nights singing in exchange for wine and whores, so Arya had accepted his honeyed songs as his final words before cleanly slitting his throat and dumping him into a canal.

It had been far too quick and far too messy, but the bustling city of Braavos was no idyllic northern plain, and she was certainly no sanctioned Warden of the North. The old way had to adjust to a few compromises.

As conditions worsened in the North, the courage of thieves and conmen failed, and black cloaks began to drift their way across the Narrow Sea. Arya had dispensed justice on three more of them before it became clear to the Kindly Man that she could not let her Stark identity go, and he banished her from further training and service. The skills she’d learned already were hers to keep; as was the circumference of scars she bore around the angles of her face - but never again would she have access to the room of faces sealed behind the ebony and ivory doors.

Arya Stark was who she had chosen, and who she would have to remain, for the rest of her life.

With the lustre of the east quickly dulling, Arya booked passage back to Westeros, through the frigid waters that led to the shore of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. When she introduced herself to the crows who greeted her there and asked about her brother Jon Snow, they’d given each other amused smiles that she didn’t quite understand while handing her the reins of a speckled Garron that would take her to Castle Black.

Her ignorance only lasted until she reached the ancient stronghold of the Night’s Watch, where she was led to her brother, Lord Jon Stark.

The name was lost on her ears when she saw him there, speaking to a tall, broad-shouldered man who made Jon look a small shadow in comparison. She didn’t even notice that he was wearing the boiled leather and chainmail of House Stark rather than the standard blacks of the watch – all she could hear was the familiar timbre of his voice, and all she could see were the kind eyes that had always mirrored her own.

When she hugged him, her cheek pressed against his grizzled jaw, his tears fell in warm droplets on her skin, even as she’d bitten her own back.

“This is the real one, then?” The tall man said in a voice as stern as his features.

“Yes, your Grace,” Jon said, composing himself as he finally pulled away from the sister he’d believed dead and gone. “This is my sister, Arya Stark.” He looked back to his only remaining family. “Arya, this is our rightful King, Lord Stannis Baratheon.”

Arya watched as the stiff man studied her with hard eyes, his lips pulled into a thin, pale line. “At least this one looks the part,” he said finally. “That broken little doe we pulled out of Winterfell shared no blood with Ned, that much was clear. Not sure how the northern Lords could have bought into that ruse for so long.”

It was only after Jon was dismissed that he explained to Arya what the Boltons had done to poor Jeyne Poole, and the condition he’d found her in when he’d taken Winterfell back with the help of Stannis’ army. It was unnerving, to learn how her identity had been so devilishly used against good, loyal northmen, and then to hear of the twisted abuses the girl who bore her name had suffered on top of it.

Arya Stark had been much better off murdering under false names and strange faces across the Narrow Sea.

Jon went on to tell her about the near defeat the Night’s Watch had suffered at the hands of Mance Rayder’s wildling army, and how Stannis Baratheon had arrived just in time to save them all. He told her how Stannis had offered to legitimize him and make him Lord of Winterfell, so long as Jon would swear fealty to him and rally the Northern houses to his cause.

“I knew Winterfell was never meant to be mine,” Jon said, guilt evident in his stormy eyes. “But I couldn’t let the Boltons keep our home. Especially not when I thought they had you there. I just couldn’t do it.” He was quiet a moment. “I sent so many ravens across the Seven Kingdoms, explaining just how dire our situation has become. What we’re up against here, alone at the end of the world. No other so-called ‘king’ answered any of our calls for help, not even for the sake of their own self-interest. Only Stannis came, and only Stannis has promised to stay and help us fight those… things.. that are heading towards us. If that isn’t a King, I don’t know what is.”

To Arya, it sounded like Jon was trying to convince himself of all of this more than anyone else. Her time with the Faceless Men had taught her to read between the lines and understand what people didn’t say as much as what they did.

They were the last Starks, and they both carried the shame of broken vows to be so.

Jon gave Arya a spare set of blacks to better ward off the cold, and she spent the next few days by his side in Stannis Baratheon’s service, helping to bring through the thousands of Free Folk who had gathered outside the gate to bend the knee to the southern King rather than brave the wild tundras of undead any longer. Stannis took the heartiest of the lot for his personal army, and the rest were sent to cultivate the Gift in support of the Baratheon northern defenses.

A little over a week passed, and the crowds finally diminished to levels the Night’s Watch could handle on their own. Jon was given the order to return to Winterfell along with Arya and a small accompanying regiment to call up the northern banners for Stannis, as promised.

The lost wolf would finally return home.

Or so she thought.

Arya had packed her small satchel of belongings and was saddling her horse when screams started to break out across the stronghold. Up on the horizon, the hulking black shadow of a beast of legend drew forth, eyes burning crimson and smoke rising from its nostrils.

_A dragon._

“Stand your ground!” Arya heard a strong, silken voice call out. “Protect your King from this enemy of the Lord of Light!” She turned and saw a woman in red break through the crowd that had surrounded Stannis, commanding them as she removed her hood and lifted her arms as if in prayer. Within seconds, her petitions were answered as a wall of black flame tore up through the frozen ground to encircle the King and his men.

The black dragon gave a bestial roar above Arya’s head as he dove and pulled into a tight swerve, narrowly avoiding the unnatural blaze.

Arya had been so awestruck at the sight of the beast she didn’t even notice that the massive dragon had a rider.

Until Daenerys Targaryen crashed down on her from the sky.

 

………

 

The Queen Across the Narrow Sea had been locked in a small cell in Hardin’s Tower, beneath the floors where the wildling women would take their rest before making their way down south to the Gift. Although Stannis had wanted her executed immediately to destroy her claim to the Iron Throne, the woman in red that Arya had seen calling up the black flames stopped him, claiming she needed time with the fire to ‘seek the Lord of Light’ on the matter.

It made no sense to Arya, but the stag King had taken her word without question.

It was Jon who had given Arya the key to Daenerys’ cell before he rode off for Winterfell, instructing her to stand guard until King Stannis had made a decision as to the woman’s fate. It seemed that for as much as he claimed Stannis to be a true King, he did not have the same confidence in the true King’s men – or his own former brothers, for that matter.

Arya shared his unspoken concern, especially after seeing the tiny queen close up. Throughout her stay at the Wall, she’d seen men gaze hungrily at even the most unwashed of the wildling women who came through the gate – and Daenerys Targaryen was a far cry from an unwashed wildling. Even disheveled and bruised, she was the most beautiful woman the young Stark had ever set eyes on – and Arya had seen more than her share of beauties during her time in Braavos, where courtesans were so fair that they inspired water-dancers to duel to the death in their name every night.

Perhaps she would have been one of those Braavo fools herself, if it had been for the sake of Daenerys’ name.

They stared at each other through the bars of the cell, each one sizing up the other as the afternoon light faded. It was the queen who finally broke the silent stalemate.

“So I am to remain your captive, then?” she asked.

“Not mine,” Arya said. “Lord Stannis Baratheon’s.”

“Do you not hold the key to this cell?”

Arya quickly glanced down at the keyring that hung from her belt. “I do.”

“Then it is you who holds me here,” the mother of dragons said softly, “and not Stannis Baratheon.”

Arya felt the slight tug of a scowl at the corner of her mouth. The queen was clever. Had she not already survived the devious wordplay so commonly employed in the House of Black and White, she may have fallen directly into the trap of personal culpability that was being set for her.

“You are here as a result of your own actions, Mother of Dragons.” Arya said. “You locked yourself in here the moment you decided to attack a king.”

Daenerys raised an eyebrow. “A king. You do not refer to him as _your_ king. Do you not serve this usurper?”

“Stannis Baratheon is my brother’s king, not mine. I swore him no oath, nor did he ask me to.”

“And who is your brother, who serves this false king while you do not?”

“My brother is Lord Jon Stark of Winterfell,” Arya said, the title still foreign and strange to her tongue, “and I’m Arya Stark.”

Violet eyes widened a little at that. “I had been advised that all of the Starks had been killed during the War of the Five Kings,” the queen said coolly, “and I’ve never heard the name ‘Jon Stark’ before now.”

“My family _was_ killed.” Arya spoke the words with a hollowness that time had carved out within her. “I had just barely managed to escape across the sea to Essos. And Jon… he was my father’s bastard, serving in the Night’s Watch. Lord Stannis legitimized him and relieved him of his vows in exchange for northern support of his campaign. He knew the northmen would only follow a Stark.”

“I see,” Daenerys said, considering for a moment. “So what you mean to tell me,” violet eyes caught steel gray, imperceptibly softening, “is that you were overlooked in favor of your half-brother.”

Arya looked down, biting back a denial. It was true. Even though she had just returned from Braavos, Jon had been legitimized even when the entire north had believed that she was still alive in Winterfell, in the sad form of Jeyne Poole.

Daenerys reached her hand up through the iron bars between them, lightly brushing her fingertips along the edge of a scar that cut a path down Arya’s cheek. “A trueborn Stark wearing the black of her bastard brother and the sword of a Braavosi… who was resourceful enough to survive the carnage of King’s Landing, and wise enough not to pledge fealty to a false king.” She waited until she caught Arya’s eyes again before continuing, “I am not the fool that Stannis Baratheon is.”

Arya felt her heart start to speed in her chest, and tried to ignore just how much the queen’s touch warmed her skin.

Just as she tried not to remember watching her father and brothers ride away so often, leaving her behind.

As if sensing the chink in the wolf’s armor, Daenerys cupped Arya’s cheek in her palm, holding her stormy gaze. “Had I been given the choice, it would have been _your_ allegiance that I sought, Arya Stark.”

Arya remembered pulling Dareon’s dead weight to the canal in thankless duty to her House.

The key at her hip started to become as heavy as the invisible Stark mantle she carried across her shoulders.

The tiny queen leaned up, her voice dropping to a whisper that sent a flush to Arya’s cheeks, and a tingle down the back of her neck. “Drogon will come for me the moment that I call him. He will melt every stone of this tower down to retrieve me, if he must. But if you release me..”

Arya remembered climbing down the steps of the House of Black and White for the last time, exiled for the unacknowledged service she performed in her father’s stead.

She felt her fingers start to curl around the key.

Daenerys’ lips brushed against her own, light as a feather. “…if you release me, then when I take back what is mine, I will name _you_ Warden of the North..”

Arya remembered the complete disregard Jon’s ‘King’ had shown her, as if she had nothing to offer save for the resemblance she shared with her father and brother.

The key slid from the ring.

“…if only you would swear to me.”

Arya remembered holding the key as she watched Jon ride out through the gates toward Winterfell without her, Stark bannermen trailing behind him just as they once did for Robb.

She turned the key in the lock, and pulled open the door.


	8. Bloodlines, Part 3

**A continuation after Jon’s departure.**

 

_For Amreen- get well soon, angst-muffin  
_

**…….**

 

Arya stood in the uppermost chamber of the White Sword Tower, the White Book open on the large weirwood table that served as the centerpiece of the Kingsguard. She turned the thick pages carefully, gray eyes scanning the detailed sigils of each serving member's House, until she found the elegantly inked lion she'd been searching for.  
  
_Ser Jaime Lannister._  
  
The Kingslayer.  
  
She'd known little about the man, aside from the fact that he was eventually revealed to be responsible for Bran's crippling, that he'd lost his right hand, and that he'd made a cuckold out of Robert Baratheon. No one had seen him since the execution of Queen Cersei; and he was long believed dead. But time in the Red Keep had slowly revealed the dusty skeletons that still lingered in overlooked closets, and in her darkest moments, Arya felt an unsettling kinship with the disgraced nemesis of her house.

They say he had only ever been with one woman. That he had only ever loved one woman.

Had she truly even loved him in return?  
  
She was not blind to the cloak she wore, or the reasons that she wore it.  
  
The fact that fate saw her own page in the White Book inked beside his only served to reinforce the tenuous ties that bound.

Behind her, she could hear the faint reverberations of marching plate echoing in the stairwell, coming to a stop just outside the heavy wooden doors of the chamber. There was a pause, and then the light squeal of hinges as they were opened by a brother’s hand for their liege.

Arya turned and bowed as Queen Daenerys walked in. “Your Grace.”

Daenerys politely dismissed her hulking whitecloak escort Ser Yronwood, and waited for the door to close behind him. “There is no one else here,” she said, once they were alone.

 _There is no one else here_. That was what she always said when she craved informality. Arya gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, straightening back up.

“You never felt you belonged here,” Daenerys said, looking over Arya’s shoulder at the heavy book that lay open on the intricately carved table, “and yet your page already has more deeds listed than some who served an entire lifetime.”

It was true. But Arya didn’t fool herself into thinking it was because of some innate heroism that had sparked within her when she made her oath – it was recklessness.

It was easy to jump first into any fray when there was a part of you that was hoping to die.

“I wasn’t looking at my page. I was just…” she reached and closed the massive tome, “remembering those who came before,” the Stark finished softly.

Dany raised an eyebrow. “It’s not like you to be so… sentimental, about your appointment.”

“You caught me in a thoughtful kind of mood.” Arya grinned, her maudlin observations momentarily forgotten as she found herself disarmed by a pair of soft, violet eyes.

“Were any of those thoughts by chance related to what we discussed earlier?” Daenerys asked, closing the distance between them as she affectionately adjusted the direwolf clasp at Arya’s shoulder.

_No._

Arya had to fight the urge to stonewall and walk out of the room.

“I told you that I’m not ready, Dany.”

Daenerys’ hand dropped, and the Targaryen purple eyes that had been so tender just moments ago became guarded. “And when do you think you _will_ be ready? Jon’s been gone for months, Arya.”

Yes, after seven years and fathering two children with the love of her life, Jon Targaryen had finally left. And now Daenerys wanted Arya to move in to the Royal Apartments of Maegor’s Holdfast with her and the children.

The same Royal Apartments that Jon had lived in with her, while he was her husband and king.

The thought made Arya’s blood roil.

“He could be gone for years and it would make no difference, Daenerys. That was your home with _him_. That was the bed you shared with _him_. I am not stepping in for you now just because he left!”

“Gods damn you Arya Stark! You are as black and white as those cursed doors you walked into years ago! How many times have I had to tell you that I never loved Jon? That he never loved me? We married to help stabilize Westeros and keep the Targaryen bloodline alive. There is a difference between desire and duty!”

“Not to me there isn’t!” Arya tore the white cape from her shoulders and threw it to the ground. “I could never just give myself to someone while I loved another!”

“Arya, you have never been in my position. You don’t know what it’s like to try to change the world only to realize that it will take longer than your own lifetime to do it. You can’t know what it’s like to-”

“I know more than you think, Dany,” Arya said softly, her chest tightening with grief. “I tried, you know. To be with someone else, even while I loved you.” She remembered the Lysene trader’s daughter, with soft waves of silver hair and pale blue eyes that almost looked violet in the right light. “I couldn’t do it... gods I wanted to, if only just to hurt you for even a moment…” her voice began to trail off as she felt a lump rise in her throat, “but I just… couldn’t.”

There was a flicker in Dany’s eyes that told her that the hurt she had wanted _was_ there, even as it was quickly being buried beneath the stoicism that was so characteristic of nobility.

“That was when I knew it didn’t matter what you told me.” Arya turned her head and blinked, hoping that Daenerys hadn’t seen the tear that had started forming in the corner of her eye. “Because how could something you did so easily be so completely impossible for me?”

Arya looked down at the tiny queen, forcing herself to stand tall despite every part of her wanting to fall to her knees and weep. “I was never as much a fool as everyone thought me. I knew who I loved – you were no miller’s daughter or tavern girl. You can’t love a Queen and expect her to be your own… I knew you would belong to the realm, and that the world would be a better place for it.”

_And I was fully prepared to share you with the world. Just not with **him**. _


	9. The Reluctant Minstrel

**AN: The gauntlet was thrown, and Starky has taken it up in challenge. As such, this particular one-shot contains graphic content/language that is _not_ generally present in my writing. Consider this a warning, and if you feel this may discomfort you, give this chapter a skip. **

**In which a minstrel performs before the very dragon he has so often sung about.**

**_For JennySparks_ **

**………**

 

The Silver Queen knew that the youngest member of her Queensguard had wanted to strike that last defendant, even as he was being dragged out of the Great Hall and down to the black cells that would house him until his execution. Arya’s left hand always clenched beside her blade when she was resisting the urge to draw it; it was a tell, and after two years of watching the wolf at her post on the right-hand side of the first step below the dais of the Iron Throne, Daenerys had learned to read her _very_ well.

The northern whitecloak shifted her left foot. _She’s restless_.

There was time to consider one more supplicant, and then the day of the Queen’s justice would draw to a close.

Her guards, led by commander Grey Worm himself, brought the last man before her. His face was mottled with bruises, his hair a light, dishevelled mop on his head. He wore a brightly colored tunic that was torn in places, and she noticed one of her men held a fine harp with a single broken string that could only belong to the flamboyant character before her.

“Your Grace,” Grey Worm bowed his head. “This man,” he gestured to the battered minstrel behind him, “he sing lies. Of you, and _zokla_. The.. _wolf_ ,” he said carefully as he translated from Valyrian to the common tongue, pointing at Arya. “In the taverns, along the King’s road. Many _rybis_ – _hear_ ..him.”

“Oh?” Daenerys raised her brow, looking at her commander and then down at the worn bard. “You are an entertainer, then? Tell me, are the words to your songs the reason you’ve been brought before me in such a state?”

The minstrel looked up at the Dragon Queen, his eyes wide as he shook his head. “Your Grace, it’s all a misunderstanding, please, they only misheard, I would never-”

“So you are calling my trusted commander a liar, then?”

“No!” The man began to tremble, tripping over his words. “It was just an accident, a mishearing, that’s all, really.”

Daenerys leaned over to her handmaid Missandei, bidding her to bring some wine. As the Naathi girl strode away to fetch a new bottle from the cellar while another servant brought the Queen a silver goblet, a dangerous smile curled Dany’s lips.

The day has been long,” she said, “and I believe my entire court would appreciate some merry entertainment.” She snapped her fingers at the guard holding the musician’s harp, wordlessly ordering him to return it. “I would like you to sing this song for us, this song that my commander.. _misunderstood_.”

Though she knew it appeared as if she was toying with the poor man, Daenerys found herself genuinely intrigued. A song about her and Arya making its way along the King’s Road? She’d met the wolf under circumstances that were worthy of a song, that much was certain.

She’d been flying Drogon across the Vale of Arryn when she’d first set eyes on Arya Stark, who had been no more than a small, dark spot on the back side of one of the tall, slender towers of the Eyrie. Unsure of what exactly she had seen, Daenerys urged Drogon in closer to the ivory spire, until she could clearly make out the audacious figure slowly clambering up the smooth rock with a set of climbing spikes strapped to both her feet and palms.

“Are you mad?” She’d blurted out to the stranger, incredulous.

The tenacious climber paused a moment to glance over her shoulder and give a respectful nod. “Your Grace,” she said in acknowledgement before pulling herself up another few inches.

“You know who I am, then?” Daenerys asked, still trying to understand just what it was she was witnessing.

“Hm,” the stranger gave a brief nod. “The dragon sort of gives you away.” She pulled her left foot from the temporary ridge she’d kicked into the stone, then cut in a new one about a foot higher.

“Are you… are you trying to break into _the Eyrie_?” She’d only taken Westeros for her own a few short months prior, but Daenerys knew enough about her lands already to recognize that the Eyrie was impenetrable.

“That’s the plan.” Her right palm hauled back before smacking spikes back into the yielding stone above her head.

Daenerys couldn’t believe the nerve of the arrogant fool. Not only was she climbing towards certain death for a bit of thievery, but she didn’t even have the decency to try to deny it!

“You know who I am,” the Queen said. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it ends now. Turn away and climb on to Drogon in front of me, and I’ll take you back to King’s Landing to await a fair trial.”

The figure’s shoulders slumped, ever so slightly. “Forgive me your Grace, but I cannot.”

“I _command_ you. I don’t know what you may have heard about me, but I do not abide thievery.”

“Thievery?” The stranger looked over her shoulder, eyes narrowed. “I’m not here to _steal_ anything. Only to free my sister.”

Daenerys’ brow furrowed, confusion evident in her violet eyes. “Free your… who is your sister?”

A strong left hand lifted and cut into the alabaster rock. “The bastard’s been calling her ‘Alayne Stone’. But her real name is Sansa Stark.”

_Stark._

“I had heard all of the Starks were killed before I reached Westeros,” the Targaryen said warily. Tyrion Lannister had mentioned more than once that the Starks were not what Viserys had claimed them to be, but old habits died hard. “If Sansa is your sister, then that would make you… Arya?”

The Stark stopped to catch her breath, sweat plastering thick spikes of northern brown hair to her brow. “It’s been a long time since I used that name,” she said finally. “But yes. I’m Arya Stark.”

Daenerys pulled Drogon back a few feet, and led him into a circling glide around the tower. She didn’t know why her thread of fate had led her to this place and time, but she found herself wanting to see the unexpected tangent through. After another spiral, she pulled Drogon back up beside the northern heir. “If what you say is true,” she slowly reached out a hand, “then come with me. Drogon can take you the rest of the way to the top.”

The stubborn Stark had refused at first, claiming that honor demanded she do this on her own, in place of her dead father and brothers. It was only after Dany pointed out that Sansa would be left waiting even longer if she insisted on climbing that Arya finally relented, pitching herself down on to the great dragon’s back in an awed heap.

After Arya retrieved Sansa and Daenerys had flown them both back to Winterfell, the brash young climber had insisted on returning back to King’s Landing with the Queen, offering her services while claiming that House Stark now owed her a debt. She’d chosen to have the wolf join her personal guard – for as much as she trusted those who already donned their white cloaks in her name, she did not believe any of them would be bold or reckless enough to climb a tower into the sky for her.

She’d always had a penchant for daring.

Missandei returned, bringing Daenerys’ thoughts back to the present as the bronze-skinned girl filled her cup. Daenerys bid her to fill a glass for herself as well, then gazed down at the minstrel. “Sing for us,” she quietly ordered.

The songsmith cleared his throat as he studied the floor intently. “Your Grace, I am so sorry. It was.. I have no patron. I’d been out of work a long time.. it was only a joke, but people kept tossing me coins.. I..”

Daenerys took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine. “Sing,” she said once more with a gravity that brooked no further argument.

The bard paled, and held his harp in trembling hands. He looked up at her, silently pleading with his eyes, but Daenerys granted him no reprieve.

Once he realized there would be no escape from this, the man plucked on the strings and began to sing, his voice wavering throughout the room:

 

_They trekked beneath the Dornish sun_

_The Silver Queen and her retinue_

_and as the men watched her sway on her saddle_

_they longed for her to ride them, too_

Dany saw Arya’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. _She wants to lunge at him._

_Oh, t'was well known the Dragon_

_took to bed whom she saw fit_

_a man needed no name or bloodline_

_to find himself within her fiery slit_

 

Arya’s knuckles were white as she gripped the hilt of her blade. _She’ll beat the man, beyond my reach after I’ve sent him away_.

It had happened before.

 

_A celebration once the treaty was signed_

_fine food and drink as the hours passed_

_and while half the men gawked at the Sand Queen's tits_

_the other half gaped at the Dragon's rounded ass_

Arya drew her blade an inch from its scabbard. _She will not beat him, she’ll **kill** him, beyond my reach._

 

_Oh Dornish wine bolstered the courage_

_of many a sun-darkened lord_

_but the shameless overtures of their virile sons_

_to the pale Queen went much ignored_

_The Wolf remained at the Dragon's side_

_While hopeful young princes left her bored_

_and soon it became apparent why_

_The wolf needed no cock to sheathe a sword!_

 

Arya’s hand opened in surprise, releasing her blade. The stillness of her shoulders indicating that she was holding her breath. _…This is new._

_The hour grew late in the Gardens_

_the Dragon stood up to retire_

_she took the wrist of the northern Wolf_

_her grip marking her desire_

_She was the smallest of the Queensguard,_

_a fierce and savage runt,_

_but no man was her equal_

_when she licked the young queen's cunt_

_Oh no man was her equal_

_when she licked the young queen's cunt_

Arya finally took a breath, her hand still open beside her blade, as if she’d forgotten it was even there. _Interesting._

Daenerys stood then, as the minstrel bowed his head in full anticipation of an executioner’s blow. The Queen remained silent for long moments, as her court stared at her with slack jaws.

Arya made sure to keep her eyes forward, refusing to let anyone see what lay behind their gray storms.

“Release him,” Daenerys said, finally. “And pay him well for the diversion he granted us tonight.”

Shocked murmurs began to rise from the noble crowd as Grey Worm unlocked the shackles around the man’s ankles.

“And you,” The Queen murmured, gripping Arya’s wrist. “Come with me.”

 

**………..**

**AN2: Although the challenge stipulated that the minstrel’s song should have ‘lyrics would make a 40 year career whore from Braavos blush like a teenager reading smut for the first time’ I really couldn’t think of ANYTHING that would make such a… seasoned… woman blush. This’ll have to do.**


	10. Winter is Coming

**AN: A bit of a different writing style with this one. Less structure, more freeform. I hope you all enjoy it, despite any bending of the rules.**

**In which a dragon must endure a wolf’s climate.**

**_For caders_ **

**……..**

 

The Iron Throne is hers.

The usurper’s dogs are dead along with their master, but the dragon has not forgotten, nor will she forgive. She takes one member from each traitorous household for her own, to hold in trust while she treats with the old blood of Westeros.

<they would swear fealty or die>

None called them wards; each was far too old for anyone to even pretend to play that game. She called them guests, hushed whispers carried far more truth and called them hostages.

<it was more mercy than they deserved, more than had been shown to her own family>

From the Lannisters, she takes a once beautiful lioness, returned from the sands of Dorne with sun-kissed skin and a horrific scar across a face that had been described as having classic beauty. Tumbles of golden locks are expertly pinned and draped to hide the disfigurement of a missing ear, but do nothing to conceal her maudlin. From the shambles of the now-footnote Baratheon, she’s given Robert’s bastard that by all accounts carries likeness of his late father even without bearing his name. Those that had once hidden him in the far reaches of Lys surrendered him upon returning to western shores, and the young man wore the countenance of one just coming to learn what it meant to be a sacrificial piece on the board. From House Stark she is granted a she-wolf, as wild and unrefined as the beast on her banner despite rumored years spent water dancing in the great city of Braavos. Grey eyes like a rolling storm burned with anger not towards the dragon, but back towards the north from which she came.

<she hadn’t imagined they would all be as wretched and broken as she and her brother once were>

They were each granted chambers within the Red Keep befitting of their status, and were permitted access to the Targaryen Queen’s court. The lioness kept to herself, dressed in fine silks while sipping the preferred vintage of her late mother in shadows, avoiding noble eyes that may fancy a closer look. The bastard often forgot himself, shamelessly flirting with ladies above his station as if a handsome face and natural charm could overcome his questionable status. The she-wolf seemed to avoid the intrigue entirely, instead opting to chat with those who served in Daenerys’ kitchens and garrison.

<she notices they bear as little love for each other as she does for them>

When not at court, the lioness is often found in the gardens, staring out at the docks. _‘She longs for the sand beneath her feet, and the Dornish heat she grew so accustomed to,_ ’ Daenerys’ servants tell her when she inquires.

<she may return there, depending on how the game is played>

The bastard spends much of his time writing letters, some to maidens that had caught his eye, with promises he never intends to keep flowing as silkily as the black ink that quills them, and more still to his supporters at Storm’s End. _‘He hopes that in exchange for an oath to you, that you’ll legitimize him, your Grace.’_

<she’s more inclined to let the name Baratheon die out completely>

The she-wolf walks the courtyard, watching sated dragons as they doze in the sun, testing their limits to see how close she can get before a ruby eye slides open in warning. _‘She’s taken more to them than any of the people here, your Grace.’_

<she wonders why her predatory children permit this at all>

Casterly Rock and Storm’s End bend the knee as required, and progress is made in outlining their terms of fealty. Winterfell displays a reluctance to accept the revived Targaryen rule, despite the goodwill Daenerys has already shown in eliminating the undead threat that had nearly breached the Wall, putting an early end to winter. It vexes her, gnawing through the warm thrum of the aged wine that passes her lips, until she sends forth her Naathi handmaid to bring her the she-wolf.

_‘Tell me of your sister, Sansa Stark,’_ the Queen says, appraising her guest with a critical eye.

Grey eyes meet her own, without a hint of guile. _‘I wish I could,’_ the she-wolf says, _‘but the girl I once knew is long gone, and I know not the beautiful wraith that stands in her place. Only that she is no sister of mine, nor is she worthy of the name Stark.’_

Unnerved, Daenerys sends her away with a flick of the wrist.

<she shouldn’t be surprised, betrayal is in their blood>

Her spies tell her what her servants can not, about how the she-wolf left the life she’d built for herself in Braavos the moment she’d learned the sister she’d thought dead was in fact still alive. How she’d gone to Winterfell, believing Sansa to be held hostage by Lord Petyr Baelish only to find that she was anything but, and had in fact chosen to marry the upstart commonly known as Littlefinger. How instead of rejoicing at their reunion, the she-wolf’s own sister had immediately clamped her in chains and shipped her to the capital to appease the Queen’s demand.

<Viserys had sold her off just as easily, and at lesser years>

It happens days later, without notice. Dawn breaks, but the sky remains dark and heavy as a sullen blade. Three dragons take flight, and when twilight descends they do not return. There’s a familiar chill in the air when Daenerys steps outside, one she had felt when she first arrived in Westeros with her dragons breathing down flame on hordes of nightmares.

She orders ravens sent to the Citadel, and across every corner of her Kingdom. She wants answers, but fears she already has them in the form of a living warning she hosts from the north – _Winter is Coming_.

<surely a change in season is far less than Stark propaganda would have her believe>

Her men are not ready when the first snows fall. They are from islands of summer and desert lands, they do not know how to read tracks that are not imprinted upon the green of warm earth, nor can they interpret the markings left on branches crystallized in hoarfrost. It is the she-wolf who steps up to lead them then, guiding them through the Kingswood and pointing out game hidden under snowy boughs and dens hidden by drifts. When they return from the hunt there is enough meat to cure and sustain the Red Keep for weeks, and much needed pelts to drape over many eastern bodies still vulnerable to the cold.

<she knows they could have figured it all out on their own, given time>

The snows rise, and the she-wolf respectfully advises that a chamber be allotted to store more firewood. _‘It’ll become too difficult to forest it later if the snows don’t stop,’_ she says. Daenerys, already feeling the uncomfortable bite of winter more than she cares to admit, turns advice into command and has the Maidenvault stacked with woodpiles as her hands rub briskly over her arms. She notices the she-wolf carrying split logs along with the servants, and has to remind herself not to be deceived by her earnest; that her father was a traitor, and she is still an enemy.

<and she may have to kill her yet>

Ravens returning in the dark only serve to confirm what she already knows, that winter has come again, and this time without warning. She conquered a continent in flux; that which was would no longer be, and that which was to come could no longer be predicted. It’s been a week since she’s seen the light of the sun, and none can tell her when she’ll see it again. She wonders, bitterly, why Viserys never once spoke of this when he regaled her with tales of their homeland, this cold and dark that came as it pleased and stayed long beyond its welcome. But it was not only Viserys to blame, _no one_ had told her the full truth of the curse that plagued the land she’d set to rule.

All she’d had was the same warning the rest of Westeros had, the ominous words of an old noble house: _Winter is Coming_.

<she’s waited, but the she-wolf had not uttered the words of her house so much as once>

Weeks pass, and every night she wraps herself in furs and stands out on her terrace, scanning the midnight horizon for any sign of her children. She knows she is unlikely to see them; they are fire made flesh, and will not tolerate the inhospitable sting of frigid winds. Yet she longs for them as any mother does for their child, and has decided that false hope is better than none at all. She finds herself growing as melancholy as the lioness, trapped in her glacial fortress, and oft catches herself wondering if maybe she should have stayed on the other side of the Narrow Sea.

One night, as she steps out of the royal apartments to search the skies in vain, she finds three knee-high figures carved in ice set at the far end of her balcony. When she kneels and holds the flickering candle closer, she can see they are small replicas of Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal. _‘The she-wolf asked me to place them there for you,’_ Missandei later tells her. _‘She seems to miss them almost as much as you do.’_

<she only seeks favor, as they all do>

_‘You carved the ice dragons for me?’_ she asks her guest.

_‘I did.’_

_‘Why?’_ The question comes out more harshly than she intends, but she has had too much time to think and finds herself driven to understand. _‘You know why you’re here. Why would you do something like that?’_

Grey eyes never falter. _‘Regardless of the reason I’m here, you’ve not been unkind.’_

She’s not sure how to respond to that, so she doesn’t.

_‘Someone once told me that summer is the time for squabbles. But when winter truly comes, as it has now, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, and share our strengths.’_

_‘Who said that?’_ She asks, softer this time.

_‘No one you’d care for, your Grace.’_

<she has not seen genuine humility in so long that it grips her heart as if in a fist>

The Seven Kingdoms pull themselves from their frozen stupor and put forth efforts to make the dark world habitable again, as they do each time the seasonal scourge sets upon them. Markets and thoroughfares are cleared of snow, and commerce continues in varying degrees under moonlight. The Kingsroad is cleared in increments, while superstitious smallfolk speak prayers in strange tongues to forces they believe will bind blizzards and return the sun from its imagined prison.

Despite the determination of her people to flourish even in such numbing gloom, Daenerys folds within herself, withdrawn. She remembers a great grass sea, and elegant gardens of marble surrounded by fruit trees and alive with the songs of colorful birds. She can bear the empty, bleak tundra that greets her no longer.

<birthright or no, this was not home after all>

_‘Your grace.’_ Eyes as gray as the sad world she sees outside break her unpleasant musings.

_‘Yes?’_

The she-wolf reaches to take her hand, stopping just short. _‘May I?’_

Her despondency robbing her of any resistance, she gives a slight nod.

Her hand is taken in a comforting grip, and she’s offered a beautiful blue flower.

_‘What is this…?’_ she asks, unable to veil her wonder.

_‘A blue winter rose. Usually they only grow in the north… but when winter comes, they can be found across the kingdoms, if you know where to look.’_

_‘It’s beautiful,’_ she whispers, the bloom appearing to shimmer in cerulean shades as she turns it.

_‘Not as beautiful as some,’_ the she-wolf speaks in a hush barely heard.

<she feels courted, for the first time in a long time, as if she was still a young girl that her brother had never bartered away>

She orders a cask of fine arbor wine brought from the cellar, and invites the she-wolf to share a goblet with her while speaking of a past life lived under the balmy Essos sun. She recounts her first marches with the Dothraki, how her thighs calloused and her hands bled despite the silk wrapped around them. She recalled the living death of the red waste, and the simmering heat of the pyre that burned around her as her dragons hatched. She spoke softly of the love that she’d lost, and saw an unexpected compassion in the grey eyes that she’d been so long anchoring herself in.

_‘Have you loved before?’_ The dragon asks.

_‘I did, once.’_ An answer spoken with the desolation that comes only from heartache.

_‘What happened?’_

A long pause. _‘I was never to her preference,’_ the she-wolf finally relents. _‘Some women, it is better to love only from afar.’_

<she silently recalls that some women are fools>

The cold grows worse, and stores dwindle. The she-wolf leads another hunt in the Kingswood, this one at far greater risk than the last. Icy winds blow thick flakes of snow in a tumult, and Daenerys has candles lit in every window of the keep, beacons to those who have yet to return. She paces, driven by concerns she should not feel.

_‘She’ll bring them all home, your Grace,’_ Missandei says. _‘Have faith and do not worry for her.’_

_‘I do not fret over an enemy of my house,’_ a regal snap.

<a lie>

The Naathi speaks as a prophet, and hours later Daenerys is informed of the party’s return. The Maester takes those who have numbed past feeling, and a few with blueish tints to their limbs. Those who fared better bring fresh game to the storehouses, less than the last time, but enough to suffice.

She finds the she-wolf standing amongst those who have huddled around the hearth, and pulls her away.

_‘You’re late.’_ She says, transfixed by the ice crystals slowly melting from choppy locks of northern brown hair.

<no, she had no desire to run her fingers through it>

An apology is murmured as she reaches up, winding her hand through an unruly fringe. She startles as she feels an ear like ice against her palm.

<no, she is the blood of the dragon and will not warm her enemy>

She presses her hand against the frigid extremity, ice melting under fire as the she-wolf winces at the abrupt change in temperature.

<no, she did not want to kiss someone she was born to hate>

She cups cool cheeks in her hands and leans up, her lips finding surprising warmth and welcome against the she-wolf’s.

 

Winter was no time to argue.


	11. Uncaged, Part 2

**In which a dragon takes a stray wolf home.**

**_For Cratto_ **

****

**………….**

It had all been an accident.

Before Daenerys would rule the lands of Westeros, she already held dominion in its skies. Dragonbinder, the Valyrian treasure presented to her as a bride price by a Greyjoy who spared no thought to the fact that she was already married, had seen to that. Her late husband, Hizdahr zo Loraq, had blown it in his haste to both prove himself and assume control over the dragons he believed were as much his entitlement as the silver queen that he’d bound himself to, and died moments later clawing bloodied trenches into his throat, breathing smoke and ash.

He was as mortal as any other man. He had not been reborn through blood and fire, rising from a pyre that consumed the flesh of the dead while granting life to what was once only stone. Daenerys had. And when she blew the mystical horn of her Valyrian ancestors, it called to Drogon, granting her purchase over him as much as Visenya had over Vhagar in the days of conquest.

Her first command to her eldest son had been for him to feed on the Ironborn who she knew had intended to steal her children, and then claim her for himself as if she were some helpless Fleabottom whore.

Her second command had been issued after she’d called him to the terrace of the Great Pyramid, and climbed herself up on to his back: _fly_.

Unlike the first time she’d flown off on her volatile son, bloodied and desperate in Daznak’s Pit, he’d remained docile beneath her. He flew true to course, her will becoming his own, and never again did she have to fear his recklessness or abandonment.

She was truly the Mother of Dragons.

She’d taken to dragonflight quickly, and the first time she’d laid eyes on the homeland she’d been ousted from since birth it was from Drogon’s back as he soared over the sandy shores of Dorne. In the months that followed, she mapped out the kingdoms she intended to claim from the air – from the Three Towers of House Costayne in the Reach, to Last Hearth of House Umber in the North, Daenerys learned the landscape, along with its tactical strengths and weaknesses.

It was only when she’d approached the Wall on one of these expeditions that things went terribly awry.

She’d seen the men of the Night’s Watch long before she came up on them, small as little black ants milling about their snowy fortress. She’d intended to just cut through their horizon, continuing on past the Wall to get a first glimpse of the untamed tundra beyond, when Drogon had shifted and veered beneath her. Drawn against her will by a force as mystical as the Valyrian binding that had been holding him, the black dragon began a speedy descent, diving straight toward a man unmistakable in both his height and bearing: the self-proclaimed king, Stannis Baratheon.

And although it had not been her intended design, Daenerys would have seen him dead had it not been for the shadowflames that forced Drogon to careen and pitch her from his back and straight into the arms of the Stark girl who rode behind her now.

Her reluctant once-captor, who would become her key to the entire North.

“Who was that woman?” Daenerys asked, breaking their silence as Drogon winged them through the dark over the Shivering Sea. “The one who called forth the shadowfire?”

“The Red Woman, we all called her.” Arya replied. “Lady Melisandre.”

“So that’s the one who holds Stannis’ leash, then.” Daenerys said, recalling the name from the numerous reports she’d been given on movement in Westeros. Though they’d described her role in his bid for power, none of them had mentioned anything about the otherworldly abilities she clearly possessed.

“She does. Most of the men are afraid of her. Tell stories about her burning ‘non-believers’ alive, and controlling shadows.”

“And what about you?” Daenerys looked over her shoulder at the northerner and raised an eyebrow. “Do you fear her?”

Arya met her gaze. “No, I don’t. I’m not afraid of anything.”

It wasn’t the first time Daenerys had heard such a claim, though it was usually a boastful fiction spoken by men who sought glory or favor. She’d never heard the words pass from the lips of a woman before. Did the Stark intend to lie to her already?

With a warm whisper and a pat, Daenerys urged Drogon into a sharp descent, allowing them to freefall with him for a few hundred feet. Once the ice floes on the frigid sea below appeared large enough to serve as landing pads, Daenerys pulled him back up again, levelling him off on the cool current.

She glanced behind her, and was met with the same even, gray-eyed stare. She shifted to settle her back in closer against the blacks on Arya’s chest, waiting to feel the telltale thumping of a quickened heartbeat.

There were none.

Wherever it was that Arya Stark had spent her lost years at, it had stripped from her a natural fear of death. And that truth left Daenerys wishing that the woman really had been only hiding behind the walls of bravado she’d become so accustomed to seeing throughout her years of rule in Essos.

It would leave her far less unsettled.

 

**……….**

 

They reached Meereen at dawn, the sunrise painting the ancient city in a splendor of light and gold as Drogon landed on the stone terrace of the Great Pyramid. Daenerys felt Arya’s careful grip around her slip away as wolf leapt from the dragon’s back down to the timeworn stones below, before offering up her hand.

Touched by the unexpected attempt at chivalry, Daenerys took the proffered hand as she dismounted, noticing for the first time the latticing of thin scars across the back of it, evidence that the Braavosi blade that hung at her side had been wielded through meticulous instruction.

Arya Stark had been somewhere very interesting, indeed.

“Come with me.” Daenerys said, leading her into the shaded audience chamber of the monolith after commanding Drogon to sate himself on some mutton. She couldn’t help but feel a small measure of satisfaction when she saw the stormy eyes that had so far maintained such an indifferent cool widening just slightly as they took in the opulence and scale of the chamber from which she ruled.

If the Stark carried any doubt about just who Daenerys Targaryen was, it would be quickly eradicated.

“Your Grace,” a friendly voice grizzled by time called out, “Thank goodness you’ve returned. We were starting to worry.”

“Ser Barristan, Missandei,” Daenerys smiled at the old Queensguard, and the small Naathi woman beside him, “I’m sorry for having distressed you. Drogon grew a little headstrong, up at the Wall. It caused my… delay.”

Barristan’s brow knit. “Your Grace, did you lose control of him aga-”

“Nothing to be concerned about.” Daenerys clipped, cutting him off. Only a small handful of people in the world knew that it had only been by sheer luck that Daenerys had escaped the Pit with Drogon that first time, the rest believed it was only natural course for the Mother of Dragons. The misconception had served her well once she had finally returned to the rebellious city, and she had no desire for the frightening truth to ever trickle down to the streets below.

She had sacrificed too much to lose the fragile peace she’d finally achieved.

“Let me introduce you both to our guest.” Daenerys continued cordially, effectively derailing any further comment on the matter. “Arya, this is the Lord Commander of my Queensguard, Ser Barristan Selmy.” She motioned gracefully towards the old knight. “And here,” she reached to place an affectionate hand on her young translator’s arm, “is my handmaid, Missandei.”

“A pleasure,” Arya said quietly, giving Missandei a nod before turning to look up at the aged knight of the Queensguard, her eyes narrowing. “You and I have already met, haven’t we Lord Barristan? Grow tired of suckling the golden teat of Lannister, then?”

In a rare moment, Daenerys found herself stunned into silence.

“Arya Stark.” Barristan said finally, his displeasure simmering beneath a thin veil of couth. “I can see you’re Ned’s daughter in appearance, but certainly not in disposition. A shame.”

“My father always spoke well of you,” Arya responded icily, “even after you stood silent in Castle Darry while that blonde cunt ordered him to kill one of our direwolves. Tell me Ser Barristan, did you stand silent again when he was arrested, or did you go ahead and do it yourself before you were dismissed?”

The old warrior’s face paled then, and Daenerys knew that Arya’s accusation, true or not, had cut the bold man.

“Your father was one of the best men I ever knew,” Barristan said through tight lips, “and in honor of his memory I’m willing to pretend you never said what you just said. But if you-”

“But if I _what_?” Arya stepped up to him, her voice lowering as her hand rested on the pommel of her thin blade. “Try me, old man. There are plenty of things I should do as well, _in honor of his memory_.”

“Missandei,” Daenerys broke in, her expression inscrutable as she brought both knight and wolf back to themselves instantly, “please take Arya down to the guest chambers. Make sure that she has anything she needs.” The silver Queen glanced up at the stony-faced northerner. “We’ll speak again shortly.” Though her tone remained equable, there was a steel to the words that betrayed her displeasure. Gray eyes flickered, ever so briefly, and she knew that Arya had picked up on it, despite their unfamiliarity.

“Of course, your Grace.” Missandei said, bowing her head and leading Arya out of the audience chamber.

Once they were far enough away that their footfalls no longer echoed, Ser Barristan turned to his liege. “Forgive me your Grace. I spoke out of turn. I…” he shook his head. “I had thought all of Ned’s children to be dead. How on earth did you manage to find Arya Stark?”

_I fell on top of her after my dragon dropped me. She was sent to guard my cell, and I promised to make her Warden of the North, sealing it with a kiss in exchange for my freedom._ “She was at Castle Black.” Daenerys answered vaguely, deciding that her Lord Commander didn’t need all of the details. “Can you confirm for me, Ser Barristan – is she truly Arya Stark?”

“She is, your Grace. I remember her. She’s got her father’s look, that’s plain enough to see even with those scars. And she’s got the right of what happened at Castle Darry,” he let out a sigh, “though she did leave out the part about attacking young Joffrey Baratheon with that direwolf, first. It seems that time has done nothing to harness her temperament.”

_She’s been placid enough with me so far_. Daenerys’ brow furrowed as she considered this revelation. _Have I made a mistake?_

“Your Grace,” Barristan asked softly, disrupting her deliberation, “may I ask, why have you brought her here?”

“What is the last news you heard of the North, Lord Barristan?”

He straightened himself, and squared his shoulders, as if they were at the small council table. “The Boltons have been ousted from Winterfell by Stannis Baratheon’s troops. The young woman once believed to be Arya Stark was revealed to be an imposter, meant only to solidify Roose’s claim on the hold.”

“And the new Lord Stark? Have you heard word of him?” Daenerys asked.

“New Lord Stark? Your Grace, forgive me, but that would be impossible. Ned’s sons are dead.”

Daenerys looked up at him regally. “Which is why Stannis Baratheon took it upon himself to legitimize Ned’s living bastard, Jon Snow, and make him the Lord of Winterfell in exchange for the North’s fealty.”

Ser Barristan looked as if the rug had just been pulled from under his feet. “But that’s…”

“Irrelevant.” Dany supplied for him. “By even the antiquated laws that still govern most of Westeros, a trueborn Stark, male _or_ female, still has the stronger claim.”

The weathered knight nodded slowly. “Always. By the old gods, and the new.”

“You yourself have told me more than once how devoted northerners are to the Starks.”

“I have. And it’s true.”

“So tell me Lord Barristan, if I give the northerners the last remaining Stark, and make her their Warden of the North, how likely are they to contest my rule? Will they still take up arms for Stannis Baratheon?”

“No, your Grace. They’ll be yours, without question. And with them comes reign over one of the largest armies in all of Westeros. At least,” the Lord Commander’s brow creased, “so long as no other heir is found.”

“Who else could there possibly be?” Daenerys asked incredulously. “By every account the Starks have all been killed. The fact that Arya managed to survive at all was a miracle. Just how many children did Ned Stark _have_?”

“Her older sister Sansa, your Grace. Although she hasn’t been seen since the day of Joffrey’s murder and is believed dead, her body has never been found. It’s a longshot, but if she _is_ still alive and _did_ step forward, her claim would usurp Arya’s.”

“Then let us hope that the dead rest in peace as they should, Ser Barristan.”

 

**……….**

Daenerys found Arya in her windowless suite at the heart of the Great Pyramid with her knees drawn, staring intently at the fire that burned in the low iron brazier. Though Missandei swore that she’d been offered her pick from any of the chambers that had once housed her former king and cupbearers, the Stark had chosen smallest of them, with none of the tapestries or carved sandalwood that adorned most.

It was almost as if she didn’t understand just who she was.

Daenerys stood in the doorway, and cleared her throat. “I trust that you’re comfortable here?” she asked, not entirely sure what to expect in response.

Soulful steel eyes looked up at her as the somber Stark gave a slight bow of her head, the first sign of deference she’d shown since they’d met. “I am. Thank you, your Grace.” She said, before turning back to the flames that so entranced her.

Knowing she should leave, but finding herself unable to, Daenerys strode in and sat down beside the stray wolf she’d taken home. She saw Arya glance at her, more than once but she said no more.

“Tell me what grieves you.” Daenerys said, able to read the melancholy but not the purpose behind it.

“I…” Arya looked down, pulling her knees closer to her chest. “I… don’t know what I’m doing here.” She swallowed hard. “It’ll kill Jon, once he finds out.” She turned to look at Daenerys, radiating a vulnerability that struck at odds with absolutely everything she’d heard about the girl with the wild wolf’s blood. “But they would have killed you, most like. Or you would have killed all of them, with that dragon you ride… either way, I couldn’t risk that either.”

Daenerys felt herself softening as she was struck with the temperamental woman’s unrefined sincerity. “I am grateful you know,” she said finally, in a tender voice she’d thought long lost in the smoke that bore her first husband to the fiery _khalasar_ of the Great Stallion, “that you released me. That I did not have to call Drogon. I wouldn’t have been able to stop him, if the Night’s Watch had attacked.”

Arya just looked into the flames again.

“Why did you return to Westeros, Arya? Where were you all this time..?” Daenerys asked, gently probing.

Arya was quiet a few moments, and the queen wondered if she had heard her at all. “I was in Braavos,” she said finally, her candor making Dany ache, “and I served as No One. Until I came across one too many Night’s Watch defectors.” The corner of her mouth pulled into a scowl. “I couldn’t forsake the duty of my House. I was the only Stark left.” She whispered roughly.

_No One. The Faceless Men – dear gods, that explains those scars. Just how much did she learn from them? Have I brought her here only to seal my own end?_

“I’m not here to hurt you.” Arya said, as if reading her thoughts. “I can never go back there, now.”

Although Daenerys didn’t understand why anyone would _want_ to return to such an order, she could sense that it pained the woman, just the same. “Do you know what I see?” Daenerys asked.

Arya looked at her, silently searching.

“I see a trueborn Stark,” she said, “bearing the weight of all that entails all the way across the sea, and fulfilling her duty while the man who shirked his own was handed her birthright.” She heard a slight catch in Arya’s breath, and pressed further. “And I see that same Stark, honorable to a fault, wearing the sworn blacks of her brother as if to take his place and spare him the title of oathbreaker – for that is what he is, Arya Stark, make no mistake – while he takes what is yours without a second thought.” Daenerys leaned in, close enough to taste Arya’s breath on her lips. “Do not grieve for him, my wolf.. you’ve already seen how little he grieved for you.”

And when Arya’s lips captured her own she yielded, telling herself it was because she wanted the north, that she needed her devotion to peaceably take the Iron Throne.

But when she stopped Arya from pulling back away breathless moments later, that reason was gone, and she no longer knew what to tell herself.

 


	12. The North, Remembered

**In which the last dragon and the last wolf are bound by duty**

**_For faithful4you, the angst-muffin_ **

 

**……….**

 

Three weeks after the last of the wights had burned, a dull, gray haze still lingered over the north, stretching south from the Wall all the way to Greywater Watch. The sky held on to small pockets of ash, as if unable to let the last remnants of so many beloved dead go. _The North Remembers_ was a saying she’d heard whispered more than once since she’d crossed the Narrow Sea to take her throne, and it seemed to apply to the frozen earth and bitter sky as much as it did the people who dwelt between them.

Daenerys eased Drogon into a gradual descent until they were coasting beneath the dusty clouds, over the White Knife river and heading northbound to Winterfell. She was to meet with lady Sansa Stark to discuss the future of the north under her reign, and to name its new Warden. There had been no crown authority rule of law in the region since Roose Bolton and his men had been overthrown by the forces of the Vale that had been granted to Sansa Stark to reclaim her ancestral home, and now that the undead threat had been vanquished Daenerys needed to establish order within the Seven Kingdoms; the unruly north most of all.

As she approached the Stark stronghold, there was no Honor Guard to greet her or banners flying in the wind. Instead, she saw only the signs of her very own house: blood and fire.

Alarmed, she kept to the sky and circled over Winterfell, trying to ascertain just what had happened. There were bodies sprawled across the courtyard; brown leather and chainmail that she quickly recognized as belonging to House Stark fallen alongside men that once held shields bearing the sigil of a red flayed man – _House Bolton_. Flames licked at the heavy wooden beams that supported the Great Hall, and massive sections of the Great Keep had already collapsed into char and embers. Two hulking Direwolves with bloody muzzles scouted warily amongst the dead, ending any twitch of enemy movement with nothing more than a snap of their jaws. Soldiers and servants doused buckets of water over the weakening blaze, and smallfolk from Winter Town rushed through the East Gate to join in their efforts.

These were her people too now, as much as the Southrons. Maybe even moreso, considering how they’d bled for her beyond the Wall even before she was Queen. She would not stand idly by as they suffered further.

The turf was slicked with blood where she finally landed outside of the Hunter’s Gate, opposite the majority of the carnage. She bid Drogon to stay alert in case she had need of him, and stepped on to what she had once considered to be enemy ground. Heedless of her silks or standing, she ran across the muddied grounds to join the crowd that had gathered to put out the fire. She took hold of an empty bucket, followed the hurried footsteps of those around her to the well, and filled it along with them.

“Your Grace!” A young man bearing a Direwolf on his chest bowed his head and reached out a hand, taking her pail from her. “Please forgive all of this…” he shook his head. “Just yesterday we’d sent another regiment of men north to pull more bodies back from beyond the Wall for proper service. We’d prepared for your arrival,” his eyes started to cloud, as if the reality he was describing was only now starting to catch up with him, “and the Boltons ambushed us.”

“I don’t understand,” Daenerys said. “I thought Lord Bolton had been killed when Lady Sansa took back Winterfell.”

“Roose Bolton _was_ killed, your Grace,” the soldier verified, “along with all of the forces he had garrisoned here. Unfortunately his son Ramsay escaped justice that day, and retreated back to the Dreadfort. Lady Stark called in the banners, and we were going to march east to finish them off… but then, well… you know the rest.”

They’d been directed to go north instead, and never returned home.“I do know the rest,” Daenerys said soberly, the pieces of the grim puzzle quickly locking together in her mind. _Ramsay Bolton hid himself away in the Dreadfort, regrouping while the Starks and their bannermen fought with me against the undead. Knowing the Starks had lost so many of their men in the war, he waited until they were vulnerable and distracted by my coming – and then he struck._

It was more than the acrid smoke and gore that surrounded her that made Daenerys sick to her stomach.

“Where is Lady Stark?” she asked, uneasy violet eyes scanning the crowd for Sansa’s telltale red tresses.

The soldier hung his head. “Your Grace, I beg you, let me take you to Winter Town just until we’re sure we’ve routed out the last of Ramsay’s men here.”

Daenerys heard a mournful cry, followed by the shocked exclamations and disbelieving murmurs that always pre-empted grief. She looked up past the soldier, and saw a familiar figure clad in loose-fitting black leathers carrying away a tall, shrouded corpse. A pale hand and a lock of red hair fell from beneath the sheet as the bloodied, somber bearer marched away from the blackened rubble that was once part of the Great Keep, and turned toward the small Sept that stood unscathed.

“That’s…” Daenerys started, her eyes widening.

“That’s Lady Sansa, your Grace. Borne by her sister, Arya.”

 

**………**

 

Daenerys declined to stay in Winter Town, despite the good man’s plea. The North had faced her darkest hours with her; she would not abandon them just as fate threw them another cruel turn. She helped to hitch up wagons that were then loaded with corpses, both Stark and Bolton alike. Servants toiled for hours carving a giant pit in the frozen plains beyond the South Gate, preparing to burn all of bodies before nightfall. Although it had never been their custom before, the war had changed them. Now all northerners burned their dead, fearing old magic that may still lay within the ground and bring their loved ones back as fiends.

She’d been as soot-smudged and disheveled as the rest of them by the time the news broke out: another body had been pulled from the debris, this time of young Rickon Stark. From the look of it his direwolf had been caught under a beam during the collapse, and the boy had refused to leave him even as the rest of the roof caved in.

“Arya’s taking him to the Sept now,” one woman said, her voice a devastated tremble.

“Why in the name of the gods didn’t someone else take him?” another asked defensively.

“Captain Jase tried, but she wouldn’t let him near. She claims that it’s her duty to mind her kin in this.”

“I understand the sentiment, but surely- ”

“But nothing. You know how she is. Her way is the old way, same as it was her father’s, gods rest him.”

The fates were truly cruel to some. Daenerys understood that fact better than most.

The two continued bickering as Daenerys made her way back through Winterfell’s gates and walked the worn path leading to the Sept. When she pushed open the heavy wooden door of the shrine, Arya Stark was standing beside the shrouded bundle that was once her youngest brother as he rested on a solid wooden altar. What had once been his beautiful, statuesque sister, lay similarly veiled beside him.

Being so close, Daenerys understood now just why she’d looked so familiar earlier. She’d appeared beyond the Wall shortly after the horrific campaign started; shooting flaming arrows and wielding a pair of Valyrian Steel daggers that none could account for. They’d never been introduced, but Dany had seen her lay waste to mobs of wights beneath her more than once from her vantage point on Drogon’s back. By the time it was all over she was gone, and Daenerys had presumed she was one of the war’s many casualties.

Arya turned, and grey eyes met her own. They regarded each other a moment, and then the Stark gave a deferential tilt of her head. “Sansa would know exactly what to say to you right now,” she said. “Something clever and proper.” She paused for a moment, as if hoping her sister would whisper wisdom to her from beyond the great divide. When none came, she carried on, alone. “But I don’t. …I’m sorry that you’ve arrived to this, your Grace.”

There was an unsureness in even those few words that struck Daenerys. She’d been told by Ser Barristan that the Starks were dead before she ever crossed over to western shores, and quickly discovered that he’d been wrong. Despite her initial misgivings she’d ended up glad for it – war did make for strange bedfellows. That Arya had been missing since her father’s arrest in King’s Landing had been proven true though, and Dany couldn’t help but wonder just where the lost scion had spent those questionable years. She highly doubted that Ned Stark’s youngest daughter had left the capital as the dervish of destruction she’d shown herself to be against the undead.

Wherever she had been, it hadn’t been amongst well-spoken nobility.

Before Daenerys could attempt to bridge the gap between them, the door of the Sept swung open again. The soldier she’d been speaking with earlier bowed. “Your Grace,” he said, “Lady Stark.”

Arya scowled. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“But my lady-”

“My mother was Lady Stark. My sister was Lady Stark. My name is Arya. Leave and spread the word to the others. I don’t want to hear that title again.”

“Of course my la-Arya.” He corrected himself nervously. “I only came to report that the bodies have been stacked, and everyone’s gathered.”

Some of the visible tension that had coiled within the she-wolf dissipated, and she gave a nod. “Make sure the torches are lit. I’ll meet you there.”

The soldier left with a salute.

Inwardly Daenerys winced. Though this was neither the time nor the place to discuss politics, governance had been the reason she’d come, and now the only living Stark left to table the matter with would not even acknowledge who she was.

For a brief moment, she missed Meereen.

 

**………**

 

Daenerys woke in the middle of the night to yet another blaze. Adrenaline clearing her mind and granting agility to her sleep-drowsed limbs, she pushed past the guards assigned to protect her chambers in the Guest House, and ran out into the misty darkness where she was greeted by the sight of Arya Stark standing in front of the now-flaming sept that held the bodies of her brother and sister.

She began to wonder if perhaps grief had driven the wolf mad.

Both astonished and inexplicably fascinated, she crossed the length of the courtyard, closing the space between them. The dried blood of her kin still smudged on her face and hands, Arya’s eyes were transfixed by the flames, roving over them as if they’d grant her divination. “I’d dug a pit for each of them,” she said, the breaking of her silence the only acknowledgement of Dany’s presence. “But when I tried, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.” She raked a hand through her hair, choppy, unruly bangs falling across her brow haphazardly. “Sansa held to the Seven. And Rickon… gods, Rickon was still too damn young to hold to anything.” There was a loud crack followed by the tinkle of shattering glass as the stained windows succumbed to the inferno. “It just seemed wrong, separating them at the end. We already spent years separated.”

The eccentric pyre snapped and sparked, but the air was still and it was far enough away from the rest of Winterfell to remain safely contained. “I know what it’s like to be left alone,” Daenerys said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“And from you… I genuinely believe it.” Arya turned to face her then, all wild thing and shadow and flame. “The servants have all been talking about it. The way you stepped in and helped everyone… they’ve never seen the likes of it. Most of them have only met one other Queen, same as I did, and she was a right royal cunt.” Grey eyes widened a little as she caught herself. “Pardon my language in saying so.”

Daenerys grinned. “It’s quite alright. I’ve… heard a few stories myself.” The late Cersei Lannister had a reputation that preceded her, and not the kind that would inspire flowery language.

“Anyways, what I mean to say is – it seems they love you. I don’t know all that you and Sansa had planned here, but I’d wager it involved ensuring the north’s fealty. Safe to say, you have it. The northerners will follow you.”

“And what about you?” Daenerys asked pointedly.

“I already followed you to the Wall, even after my brother was killed there by those traitors in black. Also safe to say you have my allegiance.”

“And why was it that you did that?” Daenerys questioned softly. Though she hadn’t intended to have this conversation now of all times, the sept would be burning for a while yet, and it was Arya who had broached it.

“I never forgot my home, your Grace… even though I did try, for a while.” Though she acknowledged just who Daenerys was through the appropriate use of her honorific, there was no reservation when she spoke. She conversed with the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms the same way she would a bannerman or perhaps even her own family when they had been alive. “And although I had heard many stories of the beautiful Khaleesi who became the Mother of Dragons out on the great grass sea, and then the Breaker of Chains in the cities surrounding Slaver’s Bay… well, I suppose I wanted to see for myself.”

_Beautiful_. It had been a long time since Daenerys had felt the warmth of a blush on her cheeks. “So you stepped into the middle of a warzone just to satisfy your curiosity?”

“That was part of the reason. Another being that I couldn’t just sit on the edge of Essos while my people were being slaughtered.”

“So you do see them as _your_ people,” Daenerys said. “The way you rebel against your title had me questioning.”

Arya’s gaze returned to the fire, and Dany wondered if maybe she’d pressed too far too soon.“I know what I need to do,” she said finally. “And I won’t run from my responsibility.” The play of light in front of them matured her in that moment, as much as her words. “I’ll rebuild all that’s been destroyed.” She glanced over at the living dragon. “I’m not my sister. I won’t curtsy or speak in riddles or play the games suited for court. But I _will_ protect my people, and serve you loyally… if that would be enough.”

And for a moment Daenerys wants to tell her ‘ _no_ ’. Not because she expects more; she doesn’t – but because if she accepts the oath and names her Warden, Arya will have to stay in the North for a very long time. And right then, beneath stars and flame and bound by a mutual grief few others could ever understand, she wants more than anything to bring the wolf back south with her, an open rebellion against a part of herself that forsook all for the sake of _duty_. The Iron Throne she fought so hard to reclaim came with a cost; one she did not know she had to pay until it had already been extracted from her. The ‘proper’ role of Queen robbed her of the rustic fulfillment and freedom she’d found as Khaleesi; and Arya Stark’s earnest and gruff attempts at propriety kindle a part of her that has been too long crushed under a seat of melted swords.

She could love her, so very easily. And as grey eyes search her own, hesitant, she instinctively knows that the last Stark is coming to that very same realization.

But the Queen will rob Daenerys of this, reminding her that Arya is the last Wolf, and of the North - needed here. And that she is the last Dragon, of the South – and needed there.

So instead she cups Arya’s cheek in her palm, a tenderness the Khaleesi wrests from the cool, practical Queen, and tells her that yes, it is enough.

 

**……….**

**Might do a follow-up to this one down the line.**

**I want to thank everyone who voted in my ‘Between the Lines’ poll – ‘The Accidental Consort’ ended up winning by a landslide, so sometime in the future you can expect a full-sized fic version of that one to be posted.**


	13. The Long-Lost Wolf

**In which a wolf witnesses history repeating.**

**_For RevanStar_ **

 

**………**

 

Three-headed dragon banners rippled in the wind as the Targaryen Queen’s ships pulled in at Salt Shore, causing local fishermen to drop their nets full of catch back into the water and clam diggers to crane their necks as they stared in awe. They had all known she was coming; House Martell had been all too happy to grant her army passage through Dorne on her march toward King’s Landing, and her arrival was all the smallfolk had gossiped about for days – but talk was one thing, _seeing_ was another.

Hundreds of sellswords, thousands of Unsullied soldiers, and an untold number of battle-trained former slaves composed the infantry of Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, and she led them with the practiced command of a seasoned general. Her dragons, fire made flesh and legends come to life circled above her in the sky, and the very ground of the southern-most kingdom shook under the promise of her reckoning.

The usurpers were right to tremble.

She didn’t see them until the third day of their westward march toward Sandstone. At first they shimmered along the edge of the desert sands like a wavering mirage, the rising heat causing the approaching horde to sway like a dying man’s fever dream. But as they drew closer they slowly took solid form, a mass of hooves and shields and leather and steel all surrounding the tiny queen they’d sworn fealty to. She shines as a beacon amidst them; all flowing locks of white hair and toned curves sheathed by royal blue, and for an instant she wants nothing more than to run, to push through her guards and pull her from her horse and hold her pale face in her hands just long enough to look into her eyes.

Because it would be like looking into _his_ eyes, one last time.

She trampled the urge, gripping it in sharp fangs until it snapped beneath her will. That was all another time, another life – she was a daughter of the desert now, and the oasis of her vineyard was home.

She was about to turn away, to return to the cool comfort of her villa until the entourage passed when she saw something through the sun’s glare that made her limbs forget the fluidity of motion.

“It can’t be…” she whispered in a voice so thin that the arid heat burned the words away the moment they fell from her lips.

She held her hand across her forehead, shielding her eyes. There, riding beside the silver queen, was a ghost.

The ghost of who she used to be.

Short, unruly dark hair fell over an intense, furrowed brow. She’d cut her own hair like that once long ago; rebellious and angry when her lord father had denied her a sword. This version of herself openly carried the blade she had wanted, its thin edge a silver glint reflecting from her hip. Light linen sleeves rolled up around her young doppelganger’s elbows, her exposed forearms betraying trademark Northern-blanch skin that resisted the sun’s bronzing as much as her own consistently had. Strong hands gripped the reigns of the dark courser beneath her, and she rode it across the sands as if it were a Winterfell garron gliding over a snowdrift.

_My blood._

Word of the Quiet Wolf Eddard’s execution and the destruction of the Starks that followed had come south after their blood had long dried. She’d locked herself away once she’d heard, so none would question her grief. All of them were dead, it was said. Even the youngest of the children, burned to char and strung up in front of their ancestral home by the Ironborn ward Ned had sheltered for years.

The pack had died, and she, the long-lost lone wolf, had survived.

She never should have; the tears that delivering Rhaegar’s son had rent within her were more than a body was meant to withstand. She knew it when she placed the infant in her older brother’s arms, when she coughed and whispered and bound him in promise to keep the boy safe as his own. She’d even slipped outside of herself for a while, unable to feel his tears fall on her face or the blood running down her thighs.

And when she awakened again in the Tower of Joy, she was alone, and all she’d ever loved had preceded her to an afterlife that refused to welcome her.

Her gray eyes smiled as she watched her kin.

Perhaps Death simply had no taste for the wild wolf’s blood.

 

**………**

 

The sun was setting when the Queen bid her army to make camp for the night, and the warbound company became a neatly organized array of tents, troughs, and cookfires. She’d followed them from a distance, compelled by an instinct she didn’t question, and was grateful that they’d halted so close to an orchard. It granted her shade and refreshment as she sat down against the trunk of an orange tree, peeling one of its ripened fruits.

As she’d walked the parched miles, she told herself it was only because she wanted to be _sure_. That she just needed one close look to satisfy any doubt, and to quiet the howls that had stirred her heart. But now that the heavy footfalls had ceased and a path had cleared, she wasn’t sure how to approach this vexing genetic companion.

But perhaps she wouldn’t have to.

Voices carried in the dusk, and she soundlessly stood and crept behind the trees that had given her sanctuary. Two figures emerged from the perimeter of the camp, walking hand in hand as they spoke softly. One was unmistakably her junior twin, though upon closer inspection she could see that the girl was marked with scars that spoke of a life earned the hard way, and marred her in ways that she herself had never been.

The other was the Dragon Queen herself.

The two spoke in a hush; she couldn’t have heard what they were saying no matter how sharp her ears. But she could distinguish an undercurrent of apprehension, and there was enough soft blue light still left on the horizon for her to make out the expressions on their faces.

Daenerys Targaryen was clearly worried about something.

The Scarred Wolf stopped them midstride, and pulled the future queen of Westeros into her arms. The monarch not only permitted this, but then rested her head on the ruffian’s shoulder. She watched as her young shadow tightened her grip around the blood of old Valyria and bowed her head, murmuring what could only be endearments under witness of the open sky.

_She loves her. Just as I loved Rhaegar._

After a few moments the queen looked up, raising a delicate hand to brush a lock of hair from the Scarred Wolf’s eyes. Then she ran her hands over the northerner’s shoulders and gripped her collar, pulling her down into a kiss that left no doubt that her affection was met, shared, and equalled.

_A wolf never loves a dragon in vain._

Their path wouldn’t be easy, just as her own and Rhaegar’s hadn’t been. It would buck tradition, it would rile the elite, and perhaps, perhaps it would even one day end in blood.

But it would be worth any price they had to pay.

_She’ll never leave you, your Grace… just as I could never leave him. Even when the entire realm started to burn._

And with a sad smile the woman who had once been known as Lyanna Stark turned and walked away.


	14. Bloodlines, Part 4

**AN: This takes place immediately after Bloodlines part 3.**

 

**_For AgentJoanneMills_ **

 

**…………**

 

“I was fully prepared to share you with the world. Just not with **him**.”

Daenerys watched as the tempest in Arya’s eyes dissipated into guarded grey fog. Noticing the aftermath of her momentary fury, the wolf sighed as she knelt to pick up her white cloak from the floor, tossing it back over her shoulder.

Behind her regal composure, Daenerys felt a deep, bruising ache as she allowed herself for the first time to genuinely feel the consequences of her actions as a woman, rather than shielding herself with her intentions as Queen.

“Do you really think it was easy for me, Arya? That it was easy for Jon?” She asked softly.

The voice that responded to her was empty, as if a few moments of raw, anguished truth had left Arya hollowed. “I think that you wanted to have _everything_ Daenerys, easy or not. And as for Jon – I really don’t think that being your legitimized dragon-riding Targaryen consort after spending his life as a Snow particularly broke his heart.”

It was true. She _had_ wanted everything – not only for herself, but for the continent she’d been trying so desperately to hold together. There was one other Targaryen left in the world; born of fire and validated by her own dragons. And when Melisandre had revealed the truth from within her flames, that the curse that had threatened to end her lineage was no more, she’d known exactly what she had to do. That her surviving nephew was also kin to her love had only seemed destined; a gift that would allow her to bear a child that was dragon tempered by wolf, their own shared blood.

She’d tried, at first, to make Arya understand. But seven years ago she’d still been little more than a girl, and the near death of everything had weighed so heavily it crushed grace and sensitivity as easily as a boot trampled a fresh blade of grass.

If only it had not been so.

“Perhaps not,” she said finally, carefully sidestepping the bolt that had hit its mark, “but being away from his own love, and the pain he knew it was all causing you **did** break his heart. Just as it broke my own.” Violet eyes raised, hoping to read something, _anything_ behind the ashen stone walls that served as windows to Arya Stark’s soul.

An indiscernible flicker, and nothing more. “I kept myself out of your way. And his.”

“And now I’m asking you to stop.”

“Seems to have worked just fine for the last seven years. Why stop now?”

The siege warfare that had become loving Arya could not go on.

“Because it **has** to. Arya, Jon is gone. He’s in Asshai with Melisandre, finally living the life he’d been waiting for-”

“-how bloody fantastic for him-”

“-and I want us to do the same.”

The feral snarl that had started to pull Arya’s lips back fell, and her shoulders began to slump as she let out a long, slow breath. “And what does that even mean now, Dany?” She reached up and raked a hand through her hair. “To ‘live the life we’ve been waiting for’?”

Daenerys lifted her hand, cupping Arya’s cheek in her palm so she could not turn away. “It starts with me telling you that I’m sorry.”

Arya’s dark brow creased, and Dany began to see behind the grey veil. “You know, in all this time… you’ve never said that. Not once.”

“I….” she cut her denial short, realizing it was true.

Seven years, countless trysts and a white cloak later – and not once had the lips that traced kisses over familiar scars or murmured breathlessly ever spoken an apology to the object of their affection.

“Then again,” she continued quietly, as if sensing the darker turn of Dany’s thoughts, “it’s not the order of things, for a Queen to apologize for her actions.”

_But I should have. Gods, I should have. Long before now._

Arya bowed her head, turning slightly to press a kiss into her palm. “So much has changed that I can barely remember who we were, and any life we may have dreamed of. I was young, and lost… but I loved you. I loved you before I even understood what love was.” She closed her eyes and paused, oblivious to the beat-skip of Dany’s heart and the catch of her silent breath. “And I still do. So tell me what it is you want now, Dany… and I’ll tell you if I have it left in me to give.”

_I want you to let me love you without pushing me away. I want to take away that hurt I see in your eyes whenever that cool mask of yours slips. I want you beside me again, by choice, regardless of the duty I selfishly forced on you to keep you for my own. I want you to brush your knuckles across my cheek and whisper my name that way that you do, the way that makes me shiver and ache at the same time. I want you to make me laugh, and help me forget all of the titles that press upon me when they become too much to bear. I want you to teach Rhaegar to use a sword to protect those he loves, and the honor in keeping his word. I want you to tell Visenya that story you made up about the clever wolf who killed the lions, and lift her up onto your shoulders while you call her ‘little dragon’._

“Arya… I just want you to come home.”

 

**……….**

**_Three months later-_ **

****

A smile tugged at Daenerys’ lips as Missandei threaded her fingers through her hair, expertly weaving parted locks into traditional Dothraki braids. “You’re in good spirits this morning, your Grace,” the Naathi said knowingly. “And I’m quite certain it’s not because you’re looking forward to dealing with the Small Council.”

Daenerys turned and raised an eyebrow. “You make it sound as if I find no joy in running my kingdom, Missandei.”

The petite handmaid laughed softly. “Far be it for me to ever suggest such a thing, your Grace. I just couldn’t help but notice that it seems you are no longer the only Targaryen to have Arya Stark wrapped around her little finger.”

Daenerys looked over as Arya knelt in front of a quietly distraught Visenya.

“What’s happened there, little dragon?” Arya asked the miniature version of Daenerys.

“It broke,” Visenya said, holding up a beautifully carved horse with a snapped leg.

“Oh, I see.” Arya held the two pieces together, studying a noticeable gap. “There’s still a small wedge missing here. I’m not sure I can put him back together.”

Tiny hands covered the Stark’s larger one, and bright purple eyes looked up somberly. “But I love him. Please fix it, Puppy?”

Arya’s eyes darted back and forth across the room, and Dany knew she was wondering just how far the little girl’s voice had carried. “Alright. Let me have him for a while, and I’ll bring him back to you when he’s back in one piece.”

Satisfied with her win, Visenya leaned up and kissed Arya’s cheek. “Thank you Puppy,” she said before skipping away.

Dany’s eyes softened as she watched Arya stand back up, trying to reassert her dignified presence as Queensguard while blushing and holding the toy.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, your Grace,” Missandei said, trying to hide a smirk. “Puppy?”

Daenerys leaned forward and coughed in order to suppress a giggle. “Maester Tarly was teaching the children about the different Great Houses of Westeros about a week ago, and having them match up sigils and House words. Visenya decided that a direwolf was, in fact, a ‘puppy’. And that Arya, being a Stark, was suddenly ‘her’ puppy.”

Missandei bit her lip, her shoulders trembling with restrained laughter. “Oh my.”

“Don’t tell her that I told you. Word spreads around fast enough, but she’s trying to keep it locked down to the royal chambers for now, at least.”

“On my life, your Grace. We never spoke of this matter.”

The shared mirth between the two began to abate, and Daenerys regained her poise. “Once we’re finished here, I’ll need you to run a small errand for me, Missandei. Another which must not be spoken of to anyone.”

“Of course.” Missandei’s hands stilled as she lowered her voice. “How may I serve?”

Daenerys glanced as Arya headed down the hall to answer a call from Rhaegar. “I want you to send a raven out to Jon. Summon him here at my command.”


	15. Of Killers and Queens

**AN: WARNING – this chapter contains graphic sexual content, and highlights unhealthy mental states, power dynamics, and personality traits. If you are offended or concerned by this, please do NOT read it. This is much darker subject matter than I generally write.**

**I want to thank my amazing beta reader who patiently got me through this chapter – no doubt I was in over my head. Any errors remaining are mine alone.**

 

**_For TheVenerableCharlotte_ **

 

**………**

 

She was in control of _nothing_.

Her titles had fallen to the floor long before the torn silk of her dress, her legs wrapped around the leather-harnessed waist of the murderous wolf who’d forced into her with a will she’d never experienced before. No, she’d never truly been owned, not like _this_ – not with the great Khal she’d wedded, not with the sellsword captain turned traitor, not with the handmaids who feared her displeasure – and the part of her mind that was Queen screamed out for her to _stop_ ; to call for her guards and end _all_ of this, finally, but instead she crossed her ankles over the assassin’s buttocks and buried her teeth into her shoulder, all while breathing “ _ye_ s”.

She heard Arya’s breath catch as she broke skin, the grip that held her wrists above her head tightening. A light sheen of sweat slicked her pale body as it thrummed, building beneath the killer’s own, and she was close – so fucking close – when the rhythmic thrusting breaking her started to slow, and guarded slate eyes captured her own. “Not yet,” Arya whispered roughly, breath hot against her kiss-bruised lips, and the dragon was forgotten as Dany let out a whimper before she could stop herself.

The Targaryen’s full bottom lip dragged up over the shallow wounds she’d wrought, the tip of her tongue lapping at thin trails of blood in a wordless plea. She knew the game, recognizing it the moment she felt the teasing grind pressing into her clit, her hips arching up as she teetered on the brink. She _would not_ say it; promised herself that she wouldn’t after the last time, though she already felt it forming on her tongue. Delaying the inevitable, she tensed, pushing up against the restraint of her captor, trying to barter resistance for the dominance she hoped would finish her.

Arya only smirked in response, wolfish, the lean muscle of her frame fixed like steel over her as she continued to tease, the leather-bound cock buried inside her to the hilt as the silk sheets shifted under them. “There are no queens here, Daenerys,” she husked, pressing kisses to the corners of Dany’s mouth. “Say it.”

Her strength a failure, Dany struck instead at Arya’s resolve, turning her head to brush her lips over Arya’s neck and grazing her teeth over the flickering pulse there, sucking on it lightly. She felt Arya instinctively start to speed pace between her thighs again, only to catch herself and pause once more. “Say it, Dany.” She coaxed, unwilling to relent.

“No.” Daenerys murmured against her neck, her blood pounding in her ears. “I won’t.” Her voice was small and vulnerable, the way it always was when Arya claimed her, and she gambled on the effect it would have on the killer – she had succumbed to it before.

A subtle stiffening of Arya’s shoulders signals her struggle at Daenerys’ near-success. “You will.” Another buck, achingly slow.

Dany felt her will dissolving under sensation, tension giving way to become reflexive tremors. She wanted, and to have she would need to submit.

“ _Please_ ,” Dany panted against her ear, overcome.

Satisfied with Daenerys’ entreaty, Arya surged into motion again. Within just a few full strokes Dany was pushed over the edge, Arya’s lips catching her own and swallowing her moan as she climaxed beneath her in a hard wave.

Gently pulling back, Arya slid the slicked member from within her and shifted beneath the sheets, unbuckling the harness from around her waist and deftly depositing it to the floor, before collapsing on her back beside Daenerys, chest heaving.

Breath still heavy, Dany turned and curled into Arya’s side, resting her head on her shoulder and pressing kisses to the assassin’s damp skin, her lips worrying a faded scar. Arya slid an arm around her, her fingertips lightly trailing up and down Dany’s arm.

Despite everything she knew, Daenerys still had to fight the urge to arch into her touch, reminding herself that the hands that so expertly pleased her were just as adept at doling out destruction, and were bloodied beyond compare.

“I remember what you told me once.” Daenerys said softly, feeling Arya’s guard start to slip under the heat of her skin.

“What’s that?” Arya asked quietly, reaching to brush a lock of hair behind her ear.

Dany kissed her tenderly in response as she pulled herself up over her deadly lover, straddling her hips as she pulled her hand out from beneath the pillow, and pressed the tip of a familiar blade to Arya’s neck.

“I see,” she said, grey eyes taking in the edge. “So it’s time, then.”

 

**…………**

The first time Daenerys laid eyes on Arya Stark, she was bleeding beside a fire outside of Castle Black with a blonde wildling girl on her lap. Staring intently at the flames in front of her, she didn’t appear to so much as notice the blood running from her temple and down the side of her face to pool into her collar, or the kisses being pressed to the other side of her neck. It was as if she was searching for something within the blaze, and when she couldn’t find it, she looked straight through it and at Daenerys instead.

Noticing where her lover’s eye had landed, the wildling palmed Arya’s bloodied cheek and bit her ear, unmistakeable in her proposition. Arya kept her gaze on Dany though, even as she stood up and hauled the wildling over her shoulder, and for an instant the Queen wondered how it would feel to be that woman of the free folk, held in lusty promise by the savage, unkempt northerner with eyes like a storm and a rumored temperament to match.

She hadn’t been truly well-bedded in years.

It hadn’t been for a lack of lovers; the Mother of Dragons had her pick of men and women alike and took as she pleased. But no matter who she chose, man or woman, cock or cunt, they all carried the same _fear_ of her. Her blood, her title, her children, her power – they dampened ardor with caution, and left her to rule each tryst much the same as she ruled her country.

By the end, she was always left unsatisfied and disconnected, longing for _something_ none of them seemed capable of giving her.

Even at the far edge of the world and surrounded by death, they feared _her_. She saw it in the widening of their eyes when she flew overhead, the hesitation in their strikes when she reared Drogon back to burn the approaching enemy vanguards. She saw horror in even the most uncivilized of them when she gave Drogon leave to feed on those who had just passed, before their blood cooled and their eyes lit with the Ice King’s glow.

But when Arya Stark looked at her, there had been no fear. Not of the wights, not of the bitter cold that hung around them all, not of her dragons, not of death, not of her crown – there was only _want_.

The thought of that raw, base desire quickened her breath and warmed her thighs when she took refuge in her tent for the few brief hours of light there was left.

She next saw the reckless scion of House Stark a day later on the battlefield, just as the sky was starting to lighten and drive the undead away. Her bastard brother, the Lord Commander, leaned heavily on her as they made their way back to camp through a tundra of piled corpses. Once those that remained to the army of the living had fallen back, Dany flew over the clearing and had Drogon bellow flame until the entire icy plain became a makeshift pyre, sending allies to their gods in a in a swath of fire and blood befitting a Targaryen.

Smoke billowed under onyx wings, and Daenerys flew back over the Wall to Castle Black, the pained cries of the wounded in the Maester’s tents impossible to escape even in the whistling wind of flight. She landed her eldest son and turned around to take in the aftermath of the carnage that surrounded her, feeling despair’s icy fist grip her heart.

_I don’t know if we can win this._

The number of undead forces were dwindling, but so were their own. Each day provided a scant six hours of peace and safety in daylight to rest, regroup, and prepare for the next onslaught. Those who had survived so far were growing exhausted or succumbing to nerves that had been rattled one too many times, and supplies were running low. She’d sent orders for replenishments weeks ago, but so far none had arrived, and it was becoming increasingly likely that they never would.

“Daenerys.”

The Queen turned to see Arya Stark holding out a mug of hot mulled wine to her. “You should drink this.” She said soberly. “It’ll warm you up and steady your hands.”

She hadn’t even noticed that she’d been shaking.

“Your Grace.” She said evenly, taking the mug. “I am still Queen, last time I checked.”

Arya just shook her head. “Look around you, Daenerys,” she said, sweeping her arm out. “We’re at the very edge of the world, holding back a tide that threatens to destroy everything. There are no kings or queens here; only soldiers and killers living their last days.” And with that she turned and started to walk away, back toward the tent that presumably sheltered her injured half-brother and the Red Woman who tended to him.

“Arya!” She called out.

Arya stopped, brow raised questioningly over her shoulder.

“Where is your… friend?” She asked, referring to the wildling she’d been bedding.

“Burned with the rest of them.” The northerner said, turning away.

Dany openly stared as she continued away, hating herself for the momentary sick rush she felt at the Arya’s admission.

She forgot to thank her for the wine.

 

**…………..**

They breached part of the Wall, towards the end.

Multiple gouts of dragonflame had thinned and weakened the ice near the base of Castle Oakenshield, directly east of Castle Black. Unearthly grips on rusted iron and heavy wood eventually overcame the ancient frozen sentinel, and wights shambled through the gap, marching westward. It had been only a stroke of luck that Dany had spotted the breach from her vantage point high above, swooping down and calling out a warning to the captains on the front lines. She could not risk widening the rift by blazing the decaying infantry. They would stop them at the chokepoint, seal it back off, and send a handful of soldiers back in through the gate to protect the injured left back at camp against those who had already passed through.

It was all much easier said than done.

At the cost of themselves, the troops sent through the gate held Castle Black – barely. Maester tents had been torn from their moorings, leaving the wounded to die of exposure. The horses had been brutally rent, jagged slices visible on their freezing corpses, and crystallized blood colored the snow in patterns like a macabre winter painting. All but one fire had died out, and its embers were being used to cauterize lacerations and the stumps of amputated limbs.

They were done.

_‘Your Grace, we’re preparing another pyre-’_

_‘My Queen, the rangers we sent out haven’t returned-’_

_‘Your Grace, we’re out of stitching, and down to our last vial of Milk of the Poppy-’_

Daenerys stared out at them all, throat dry and glassy-eyed as they surrounded her, each waiting for her command, trusting her to supply their every answer – to give them all what they needed.

But she had nothing left to give.

She was exhausted, and the otherworldly horror that had left its mark on everything surrounding her for weeks had finally taken its toll.

“Enough.” A cool voice cut through the din. “Continue stacking the pyre, and light it when you’re absolutely sure no body has been missed. If the rangers haven’t returned by now they won’t; there’s no need to go searching. Go through the tents and see if you can find any silk garments, tear those down to make some more stitching.”

“Go.” Daenerys said, with all of the strength she could muster as her men waited on her word. “See it done.”

Orders given, they each dispersed, and Dany felt an all too forward arm wrap around her waist as Arya Stark sidled up beside her and started to lead her to her tent. “Don’t look at any of it anymore, Daenerys,” she said evenly, “it’ll all be gone soon enough.”

_We’ll all be gone soon enough_ , she thought, putting one foot in front of the other. “We’re all going to die here.” She said with grim certainty as they stepped through her makeshift doorway, resigning herself. “Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Mother of Dragons, and yet I can not save _any_ of them from this.”

“You might yet. You can go back south – we’ll buy you as much time as we can here.”

“What kind of Queen abandons her people?” Daenerys asked hotly.

Arya didn’t skip a beat. “I already told you Daenerys – there are no queens here. Just soldiers and killers preparing to die.” She paused for a moment, then, gently: “You should not be one of them.”

Steely-eyes that had held her across a fire just days ago penetrated her again, making Daenerys feel as if the northerner could see inside her deepest and most hidden self. She felt the heat of a flush run through her as she vainly tried to veil her soul. “And which are you, Stark?” she countered, deflecting.

“Killer.” Arya answered, without hesitation.

There was an intensity emanating from the wolf, an energy Daenerys could feel slowly starting to envelop her, drawing her in. “Tell me why you look at me that way,” she commanded, desperately gripping her fast-fading authority.

“I look at you this way for two reasons, Daenerys.” Arya took a step forward, closing the distance between them. “One, is because I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.” She set her hands on Dany’s hips, unwavering and presumptuous, as if they were supposedto be there all along. “And the second reason,” her voice lowered hypnotically, “is because I see my end in you. And I love you for it.”

Daenerys started to ask just what it was she meant by that when her question was cut off by cool lips seeking her own, and her thoughts burned away in the flames ignited within her.

Arya needed no invitation to find a place in Dany’s bed. She simply took it, the same way she took Daenerys herself – fully and completely, as if she were claiming a promise long sealed. When they finally collapsed, sweaty and entangled, Daenerys briefly remembered one of the questions she’d meant to ask before they were all so thoroughly kissed away:

_What do you mean by killer?_

But as she ran her fingers through choppy dark hair, every inexplicable desire fulfilled, she decided it didn’t even matter.

There were no killers there, just as there were no queens.

 

…………

 

They did not die at the hopeless bleak of the Wall.

A Valyrian Steel sword was thrust into the breast of the Red Woman who had been with Jon from the start, and a flaming blade of legend was forged in her heart’s blood, lighting up the long night and destroying its king.

Jon was inconsolable.

Those that were left alive were either too exhausted, or too terribly broken to celebrate the victory.

“Return south with me.” Daenerys demanded as she trailed kisses along the curve of Arya’s jaw as they shared her bed, their first night of peace spent on everything but sleep.

A grin that always made Dany’s knees weak tugged at one side of Arya’s mouth. “You hardly know me, Dany. Are you sure you want a scruffy northerner sullying your court?”

Daenerys pressed a finger to Arya’s lips, quieting her. “I know you well enough.” Her breath caught when Arya began to nibble her fingertip, in very much the same manner that she’d nibbled other, more sensitive areas only moments before. “And I know that I want you with me.”

“I’ll go with you,” Arya said, leaning in to kiss the curve of Dany’s bottom lip, “on one condition.”

“What’s that?” Dany raised her brow, unused to bargaining since she took her throne.

Arya reached down beside the bed and slid a sheathed dagger from her belt, then handed it to Daenerys. “Keep this.”

Dany pulled out the blade, a fine Braavosi piece honed to a razor’s edge. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly, “but what is it for?”

“For the day you truly do know me.”

 

**…………**

 

The day Daenerys truly knew Arya Stark was shortly after the Ironborn started raiding.

Starting from the town of Seaguard and working their way south all the way to Crakehall, the Iron Islanders had burned, pillaged and raped across the western coast. They exacted their iron price while Daenerys had been north, taking advantage of her absence to press against those who had what they wanted, without fear of retribution in the form of dragonfire.

Dany’s army, including a regiment led by her newly-sworn Stark captain, marched west and put down every Ironborn who stood against them, and burned the ships of those who tried to escape. By the time Daenerys herself arrived, winging in on the Black Dread, the battle was already over and the smoke starting to clear.

“ _Where are the prisoners?_ ” She asked her Unsullied commander, slipping into her mother Valyrian tongue. “ _Those who have surrendered, and those who claim to have been taken hostage by the Iron Islanders. I wish to speak with them_.”

Grey Worm shook his head. “ _There are none to speak with, my Queen_.”

“ _Do you mean to tell me that out of thousands of Ironborn, you took not one prisoner? That no one surrendered, or begged mercy?_ ” Daenerys felt the dragon within her stirring.

“ _There were some, my Queen. Fearful men, captives we found, a few women and boys too young to carry out their commands_.”

“ _And where are they now_?”

“ _That one_ ,” he pointed the tip of his spear towards Arya, “ _killed them last night_. _All of them_.”

Through the fading fog of war, Daenerys saw her blood-stained lover, and finally understood.

_‘Killer’, she had answered, without hesitation._

**………..**

 

The blade is sharp; she nicked Arya’s throat without even meaning to.

“S’alright, Dany,” the wolf said. “I told you this day would come. Do it.”

There’s something broken inside Arya Stark, and Daenerys knows it. Something that grips her, compels her, bathes her in red until its had its fill. Countless had already fallen victim to the dark need that lurked within, and there’d be countless more unless she stopped it.

That dark passenger may even turn on her, some day.

She would not want this butcher. She could not love someone so _wrong_.

The Targaryen Queen ruled the Seven Kingdoms, and it was her duty to end any threat to her people.

Her wrist moved slowly, pressing in and cutting. Stormy eyes that she’d drowned in so many times watched her, fearless as they’d ever been.

_I love you…_

Thick drops of blood trailed down Arya’s neck, spreading as they soaked into the sheets.

_I’m sorry…_

Arya tilted her chin up, further exposing her neck.

_It… has to be this way…_

The blade sunk deeper.

_No!_

Dany’s grip faltered, and she pulled the blade back, hurling it to the stone floor. She leaned down over Arya, pressing her lips to the incision she’d made, tasting copper tang and death. “No,” she whispered, “not now. Not today.”

_I **need** you. _

There were no killers there. Just as there were no queens.


	16. The Nexus - Crossover

**AN: Full disclosure – I am a shameless gamer. And the ‘Soulsborne’ series by From Software in particular holds my digital heart. It just so happens one of my readers is a kindred spirit in this, so this particular one-shot is for her. A play on the Maiden Astraea/Garl Vinland dynamic in Demon’s Souls, with a Stargaryen twist. If you haven’t played it, this won’t really make sense… I apologize in advance for that.**

**_For FishSlayer_ **

**…………**

_‘Soul of the mind, key to life’s ether…’_

There’s a memory, dim and fading as he sinks into the dark – snow and cold and steel cutting through black leather, flesh and bone. There’s words connected to the ebbing pain - _brothers_ , _watch_ , _betrayal_ – but just like the ache, their meaning is paling as he falls away.

 

_‘Soul of the lost, withdrawn from its vessel…’_

He awakens in a refuge, a place for souls like his own that are bound to their unfulfilled destinies. They have each carved a niche here amongst the great stone walkways and staircases that lead to the sacred Archstones, and when he speaks to them, translucent and melancholic, he finds a mirror in their sorrow.

Though he can’t remember _why_ he’s filled with such despair.

 

_‘May strength be granted so the world might be mended…’_

The Woman in Red finds him, after he’s touched the Archstone depicting a Small King and wandered a huge stone castle in shambles. He’s weary, an essence that’s been cleaved by things that once were men and now only railed in empty madness. He holds the souls of the vanquished, and they sequester him from the mania he feels closing in around him.

She quickly becomes his sole comfort in this Nexus, her sealed eyes seeing the path ahead. She speaks his name, _Azor Ahai_ , and bids him to touch the shadow she holds within. He’s bolstered, each and every time he does, and she whispers promises of revival against his ear.

He need only reinforce himself first.

_‘So the world might be mended…’_

 

Their power was meant to be his; he can’t save his home without reclaiming it. The Woman in Red tells him so, and she is his truth here, his guiding compass. So he slays – he kills those who stand in his way, with eyes that burn crimson, sapphire and onyx - and he slaughters their prodigious masters.

He feels his spirit thrum and surge as they perish, lost pieces rejoining and intertwining into a vibrant whole.

The bastard sword he carries glows radiantly now, emitting a purifying heat with each swing. The fallen have forged the blade as much as the man, now he need only temper it.

The Archstone of the Maiden alone remains.

 

_‘Leave us, Slayer – this is a sanctuary for those who were once enslaved.’_

 

The woman’s voice is far too gentle for the harsh landscape that surrounds him. He wades through shallows of blood, sweat, and tears, feeling the suffering that wrought them leeching his strength.

He wanders, lost in the squalid mire, until he finally catches sight of a rough patch of land with a small fire burning. Hope rekindled, he pulls himself through the dank, and finds another who searches this forsaken shore.

Crystalline blue eyes that tug on the memory he’s lost regard him from beneath a golden winged helm. “I am Sansa, of Westeros. I seek my sister, Arya Stark.” The shining champion tells him. “I’ve not seen her since our father’s death. They say she became the Dragon Queen’s knight – I believe they settled here.”

He has seen no one else.

 

_‘There is nothing here for you to pillage or plunder. Please, leave quietly.’_

The same tender voice he heard when he first arrived calls to him unseen once again, as he climbs down a sodden embankment littered with rusty, discarded chains and manacles.

He must not heed it.

In the distance, he sees the luminous source of each gracious warning he’s received – a beautiful Lady clothed in pristine silks, with hair the color of moonlight tumbling over her slight shoulders. She sits atop a pile of broken collars, while a dark knight in black leather much like his own kneels before her.

 

_‘You will not turn back, will you?’_

 

The Lady is silent now; it is her guardian who addresses him.

He does not answer, only draws his sword.

The knight takes The Lady’s hand, pressing a kiss to it before rising and turning to face him. Beside the mountain of shattered bindings rests a greatsword with a rippling blade that gives him pause. He knows that blade, somehow, and its name presses against the tip of his tongue.

But he still can’t quite remember.

 

_‘What right do you have? You abandoned us long ago.’_

 

The she-knight stalks toward him, the embodiment of cold fury. She wields the greatsword, lifting it easily with strong, scarred hands that bear a silver ring etched with twin fangs, and a weathered bronze ring once worn by an old king.

He knows her face, her familiar grey eyes - but like the name of the sword she carries, it’s adrift at the far edge of his mind, where he can not reach.

 

_‘I shall let no harm come to my Queen.’_

And with that she strikes him, knocking him to the ground in a graceless heap. He barely has time to look up before the massive blade is arcing toward him again, and he rolls back just before the edge cleaves the filthy soil that had just cradled him.

He swings as the dark knight pulls her weapon from the sundered earth, causing her to stagger back as the heat of his blade stuns her.

It seems The Lady’s unfortunate protector is weak against fire.

 

_‘Please, stop! This is our home. We have done no harm to you!’_

 

The pale Lady calls out, her violet eyes never leaving her pained knight. And she speaks true – he bears no grudge against the mild beauty or her sworn sword; they did not seek this strife.

But she holds a power that he _needs_ , that the world he can’t recall will be lost without, and so he will do what he must to claim it for his own.

Unless her guardian ends him first.

She slices with an agility that’s at odds with the immense blade she’s brandishing, and once more he finds himself dazed, looking up as she prepares to land a fatal blow.

He dodges as she thrusts downward, and quickly rises to his feet once more, his burning, shining bastard sword piercing through hardened leather and the knight’s beating heart, tempering it.

 

_‘Daenerys… I have failed you…’_

 

There’s sorrow in the slate eyes of his foe as she falls to her knees, and for just a moment, he’s horrified by his victory. The Lady runs to her protector, cradling her head in her lap as she fades, whispering one last mournful apology.

She is dead before the first warm tear hits her cold cheek.

 

_‘You. You killed her… very well… I can no longer resist you...’_

 

In her anguish, The Lady surrenders. She looks at him with such grief that he instinctively steps back, his blazing sword nearly falling from his trembling fingers. There is a wrongness here, in what he’s done, something horrifying – but, as with everything else that pulls at him, he can’t place it.

Instead, he watches The Lady’s delicate hand pull a blade from her dead guardian’s belt, and plunge it into her own breast - as if she is unable to bear a death any less than her love’s. He watches the light dim in her eyes as she slumps over the dark knight, breathing her last.

And then what was hers becomes his, and it’s more than he can hold, more than he could ever hope to grasp.

He falls, motionless, on the hallowed ground that suffers his sin.

 

**……….**

 

He rouses under the hand of R’hllor’s chosen priestess, revived by the blessed magic of the Lord of Light. The pyre burns around him, even though no torch was set to tinder. He lays in the flames, feeling warmth return to his long cold limbs while he is cleansed and purged of the bastard he once was.

He is Azor Ahai, the savior reborn, and Lightbringer blazes anew.

Meanwhile, far across the Narrow Sea, at the top of a great pyramid, a Queen and her Knight lay entwined and still in ruby sheets, never to wake.

 

**……….**

**The Players:**  
Protagonist – Jon Snow/Azor Ahai  
The Maiden in Black – The Woman in Red, Melisandre  
Selen Vinland – Sansa Stark  
Garl Vinland – Arya Stark  
The Maiden Astraea – Daenerys Targaryen 


	17. Ave Imperator, Morituri te Salutant – Pt 1

**AN: This mini-series is based off of HBO canon season 5, where Tyrion is already serving as Dany’s advisor when the fighting pits in Meereen are opened. The main battle here takes place _before_ Jorah’s, and _before_ the Sons of the Harpy reveal themselves and start their rampage – setting up an alternate timeline and version of events.   
*Credit for best. title. ever. goes to prplmunky **

**_For cmiller_ **

****

**……….**

 

_‘I’m not going north child; we’re going home.’_

_‘Where’s home?’_

_‘The Free City of Braavos.’_

_‘Wait, I have something else.’_

_‘More silver won’t make a difference.’_

_‘It’s not silver; it’s iron.’_

_‘…this… how did you…?’_

_‘Valar morghulis.’_

_‘Valar dohaeris. Of course. You shall have a cabin.’_

 

She never turned back once the Titan’s Daughter left the Saltpans. Not once.

She pushed her way to the bow of the ship, a salted breeze rushing through her choppy dark hair, and stared forward, eyes hard. She refused to look at the vanishing shoreline of the land she once called home - that place was dead for her; as dead as everyone she had ever loved. Even as the sun set, she forbid herself to so much as glance over her shoulder to see how far they’d gone – the rough waters split by the prow in front of her told the tale well enough, and she preferred it to any narration the stern might supply.

The next time she set eyes on Westeros, it would be through the red sheen of enemy blood.

She did not startle when she heard the bustle of sailors behind her; they all seemed to know the power of the coin she carried better than she did, and uneasy looks in her direction every so often were all they afforded her. They thought she was something more than she really was, someone powerful and dangerous, and she would do nothing to shatter their illusions.

It was too beautiful a thing, being feared.

The night was dark and moonless, but the sky was clear, and the ship was steered along a midnight trail of well-known constellations. Sea mist cut with evening winds had numbed her skin, and grey eyes grew heavy under the weight of their vigil. She whispered her prayers to the God of Death, ever ready to become his faithful servant, and bid goodnight to the stars who bore her witness.

The cabin she’d been granted had a serviceable bunk, and for the first time in months, Arya Stark slept in peaceful comfort.

Until the storm came.

 

**………..**

Waves that should have capsized the Titan’s Daughter crashed, and wind that screamed like a banshee and cut like a razor left once-billowing sails in tatters. Lines snapped, rigging reeled and collapsed, and men who had spent their entire lives on the sea were claimed in terror by their briny mistress.

The angry wolf held fast through the assault, lashing herself by the wrists to a drenched post while spitting ‘ _not today_ ’ from her lips along with saltwater. It was not the God of Death come to claim her, it was the Drowned God, an enemy god of traitorous krakens, and she would not heed his tantrum.

Hours later, when enough had flung overboard to appease him, the vicious Greyjoy deity relinquished his grip, and the waters calmed and the wind stilled. Her hands trembling, Arya untied herself and walked the length of sodden planks to find other survivors. The captain, Ternesio Terys, pale-faced and shaking, clung to the splintered ship’s wheel with white knuckles. Four other sailors, each as wan and strained as their captain, lay sprawled across the deck, chests heaving with breath that they couldn’t quite catch.

They spent the rest of the day speaking for the dead, and trying to mend torn sails.

Onward they drifted, using smeared, soggy maps and the angle of the sun to try to chart out a new course. They spoke in whispers and glared, and Arya came to understand that superstition led them to blame the wrong god for their misfortune.

Though they dared not cross her openly, she was shunned.

Until the raiders came across their aimless vessel.

Then, those who had scorned her screamed for her to fight at their side and help save them.

 

**……..**

 

It had been hopeless from the start, but Arya had managed to kill three of them before her head was dashed against the mast and she was clapped in irons along with the rest of them. They were shoved across a crude, makeshift gangplank on to a ship with black sails, where they were lined up for inspection by a man the crew simply referred to as ‘Red’.

Bald, one-eyed, and stinking of blackstrap rum, Red wore a whip for a belt and wielded a thin club with a brutal grace that would make a water dancer envious.

“This is the one wot killed Stim, Darrus, an’ Yago.” A hand that felt more like a claw gripped Arya’s shoulder, pulling her from the line. “Never even ‘eard ‘im comin’. He had a nice little blade we took, an’ this here coin.”

Red took the iron coin, studying it a moment. Then he smirked, swinging his blackjack towards Arya’s face. The wolf’s eyes narrowed, and she held steady as it stopped just short of her temple. She would not give him the pleasure of seeing her flinch.

“Just three less shares to pay out.” Red said slowly, voice dripping with derision, “And he… is a _she_. A member of the Faceless Men of Braavos, in fact.”

Nervous murmurs began to rise from the crowd that had gathered. Once again, she was feared.

Red leaned down, his grizzled cheek scratching Arya’s own as he hissed: “The rest of this lot might be afraid of your order, but I’m not. I was going to sell you to a pleasure house, _girl_ – but how much more would one of the good masters of Meereen pay to have an acolyte of the Faceless Men on his roster? The Dragon Queen has agreed to re-open the fighting pits, and anyone who can hold a blade has tripled in value.” He lifted the iron coin, and bit it. “I’m thinking with this little trinket, I can get even more for _you_.”

He smiled then, turning to his men and ordering them to bring up the others they had stowed away in the cargo hold. Chains clinked as men were hauled up by collars around their necks, their bruised wrists bound in rusted metal the same way Arya’s were.

“Give these ones their pretty new necklaces.” Red said, waving his arm toward the crew of the Titan’s Daughter. “And bring me some ink.”

Arya thrashed as they circled the leather around her neck, fastening it with a hammered steel pin.

One by one, they were all held down on the deck by two sets of arms that were as thick as tree trunks. Red knelt beside them with a thin, hollow stick punctured by a long thorn. He dipped the tip of the thorn into a bowl of black ink, then held it to their right cheeks just beneath their eyes. Light, quick taps of his blackjack on the end of the stick behind the thorn pierced it down through their skin, over and over again, permanently marking each of them with a number so they’d never require a name.

Arya grit her teeth as blood and ink ran down her face like tears.

She was number thirteen.

 

**……..**

 

They were kept chained below decks for weeks as fair winds drew them to Slaver’s Bay.

Arya was made into Arry again, her hair roughly shorn by a dull blade that cut into her scalp and left her savagely unkempt in order to drive up her sale price. Falsely believed to be a Faceless Man or not, this was not Lys, and the great masters would _always_ pay more for a male. By the time they ever found out they’d been cheated, Red would be long gone with their gold.

To add to her myth, they clad her in hardened leather armor artlessly tailored to fit her slight frame. Bundled with her Needle, a boot dagger, and the iron coin proving her association, she was sold along with captain Terys for twice his value, to an obese man named Bhakara no Zuul the day before the Pits were set to open.

“I thought the Queen was only opening the Pits to free men.” Arya muttered to her former captain, recalling the snatches of conversation she’d heard through the planks over the course of their journey.

“That is the Queen’s intention,” Ternesio said quietly, “but her rule here is tenuous yet. The great masters will pay handsomely for slaves smuggled through her barricades, just to spite her.”

Arya said nothing more after that, resigning herself to the fact that what remained of her life would be spent on bloodsport, purchased as nothing more than an act of contemptuous defiance.

A peace washed over her as she decided it didn’t really matter.

At least, in the end, she’d finally be with the rest of her family again.

 

**……..**

One clap was all it took.

Her husband and her paramour traded barbs beside her as a headless body from the opening match was dragged across the sands of the arena, an homage to her ‘glory’.

Glory felt as if it would vomit.

Blood still lay pooled as the gates were opened again, the games set to begin in earnest. Only Missandei and her new Lannister advisor had the decency to look openly repulsed, and despite her best efforts to remain regally neutral, she knew her own expression likely mirrored that of their own.

_We ask again: who will triumph?_

_Meereenese champions?_

The crowd that filled the coliseum rose to their feet, their cheers becoming a deafening roar as four men in the traditional armor of the ancient city stood before her, declaring her as their reason for battle.

_Or the challengers, come all the way through the perils of the Smoking Sea for a chance at glory?_

The cheers began to die down as four others stepped up before her, each clad in hardened leather that had seen better days.

_We fight and die for your glory, oh glorious Queen_.

Violet eyes trained on two of the contenders faces in particular, Daenerys leaned over to Hizdahr. “Why do two of those warriors bear slaver’s marks?”

“Remnants of a former life, your Grace.” Hizdahr replied evenly. “Now they come here of their own free will, in honor of all you have done for them.”

“Even the boy who’s too young to shave?” She ground out tersely, tilting her head toward the smallest of the lot, black ink depicting the number thirteen on his cheek.

“He’s old enough to know his mind, your Grace.” His dark eyes slid over in Daario’s direction. “Besides – according to the logic of _some_ here, that one is like to best them all.”

Daenerys sat back, trying not to look completely stricken as they awaited her command.

Again, she clapped.

To her right, Tyrion’s brow furrowed as he stared intently at the combatants, a cloud of dust forming around them as steel sought flesh with a fury. A look of dread passed over his face, and he rose to his feet. “Your Grace, please. You must stop this.”

“She cannot.” Hizdahr countered.

“She can!” Tyrion insisted, bypassing the Queen’s political consort entirely. “Your Grace, do you remember when I first arrived here? We discussed how both of our terrible fathers had ensured there were no Starks left to support your claim in Westeros.”

“I remember.” Daenery said, her confusion evident as she turned from the arena to her persistent advisor.

“It seems neither of our terrible fathers were quite as thorough as we thought.” His arm outstretched, and gestured to number thirteen as he tucked into a roll, barely dodging the heavy cleave of a greatsword blade. “I never forget a face, your Grace. That ‘boy’ is in fact Arya Stark.”


	18. Ave Imperator, Morituri te Salutant – Pt 2

**AN: It’s been pointed out to me that the title I am using for this mini-series may be offensive to Latin aficionados. As Dany is a Queen, the feminine ‘Imperatrix’ should technically be used in place of ‘Imperator’. Please be aware that the title is not meant to be _literal_ ; it is a well-known phrase that I wanted to use for _symbolism_. If that is still offensive nontheless, please enjoy some of my other works instead. **

**………**

She’d always been told she looked like her father, but lacked his quiet temperament. That she had the wild wolf’s blood running through her veins; same as her uncle Brandon and her aunt Lyanna.

It was only fitting, then, that her end come at the hands of a dragon, just as theirs had.

_‘We fight and die for your glory, oh glorious Queen.’_

She recited the empty declaration with her fellow combatants, looking up at the Silver Queen that was every bit as beautiful as they’d all said, with deadened eyes.

“She doesn’t want this,” captain Terys said quietly, the inked number nine stark against his skin as he looked up at the so-called Breaker of Chains. “And neither does that little man up there beside her.”

Arya casually glanced right to left, more out of instinct than any actual interest. “What little-”

The stormy northern gaze found its half-sized mark, and her breath caught, strangling in her throat.

_The Imp._

She’d been a happy fool, the first time she’d seen Tyrion Lannister in the halls of Winterfell after the arrival of King Robert. A wolf pup who still had a pack; and wanted nothing more than to train in the sword and wear the armor of a Stark soldier.

How things had changed.

Grey eyes narrowed, hard as granite, as she stared intently up at the stubby little lion whispering in the Queen’s ear - a living representation of nearly every blade that had cut through her family.

The God of Death she intended to serve had not forsaken her. Through storms, chains, and enslavement, he was _still_ guiding her hand; blessing her with answers to prayers she’d never even spoken.

She was already counted amongst his faithful, and that faith had been rewarded.

Somehow, some way, she had to survive the match. She needed to live long enough to kill the Lannister the only true god saw fit to gift to her.

Two slender hands came together in a soft clap, and it began.

 

**………**

Her heart beat for vengeance; and the angry howl of her soul called out its demand.

When Arya Stark drew her blade, it was not the noble father she’d lost who guided her hand, nor was it her fallen kingly brother – it was a Dog she’d left to die, vicious and unrelenting.

_‘No one’s going to kill me.’_  
  
_‘They will if you dance around like that. That’s no way to fight.’_

Air whistled in her ear as she dropped into a roll, narrowly avoiding the greatsword’s edge as she spun in the desert sand. She swung her left arm out as she rose to her feet behind the eastern champion, cutting the edge of Needle across the backside of his knees, severing thick cords of tendon until he dropped, a stream of foreign curses on his lips.

Arya slid her thin sword through the back of the lamed warrior’s neck, then savagely twisted it upward before pulling it back out. Lifeless fingers twitched as the once great Meereenese slumped forward, his face ploughing a furrow into the dust.

_‘You’re learning.’_

“Look out!” She heard captain Terys’ voice call out from the melee. She spun on her heel to seek him out, and saw a spear hurtling towards her. Nimble feet launched her sideways in the nick of time, the point claiming only a strip of her linen sleeve rather than puncturing a lung.

“Whoreson!” she spat, steadying herself just as the ridge of a rounded shield struck across the back of her head, and sent her skidding across the arena.

_‘Your friend's dead, and Meryn Trant's not, 'cause Trant had armor. And a big fucking sword.’_

Dazed, Arya saw Needle laying a few feet away, half-buried in grit.

 

**………**

 

Tyrion had already decided he didn’t care for either the Queen’s ‘eloquent’ husband or her greasy sellsword paramour, but his dislike for the pair was beginning to soar to new heights as he watched them grow ever more excited at the sight of new blood being drawn.

Daenerys, on the other hand, grew more wan.

“Your Grace, please, trust me. You need to stop this, before it’s too late!” Tyrion entreated her, desperate to break through a lifetime of conditioned resentment to make her see reason. “The North is larger than the other Six Kingdoms combined, and the key to it is about to be slaughtered in front of you.”

He could see the Targaryen’s internal conflict play out across her features. “I though the Starks were exiled,” she said, visibly strained. “ _You_ told me they’d been exiled, and were all dead.”

“All _believed_ dead, your Grace.” He corrected gently.

Green eyes anxiously peered down at the bloodsport that was playing before them, settling on number thirteen as she crippled a giant, and pierced the back of his neck with a rending brutality that disturbed him.

Wherever Arya Stark had been the last few years, it had not been pretty.

“They murdered my father.” Daenerys murmured, more to herself than to him. “They butchered my niece and nephew.”

“My brother murdered your father,” Tyrion said carefully, treading as lightly with the Queen as he would on thin, cracking ice. “And my father ordered the murder of Rhaenys and Aegon.” He licked his lips, tasting his disgust with the actions taken by his calculating sire. “And even if that were not so, all of this happened long before Arya Stark was even born. Would you place the sins of the father on his children? The fact I am here with you now tells me that is not who you are, your Grace.”

A well-struck blow with a shield sent number thirteen – Arya Stark– sprawling, her blade slipping from her hand.

He looked over at Daenerys, who still remained silent despite her obvious turmoil.

He could continue to plead with her, to point out the fact she _needed_ a stronghold in Westeros if she ever hoped to take the Iron Throne. He could draw her attention again to the mark on Arya’s cheek; proof positive that the great masters were still practicing slavery despite her ordinance. He could even go so far as to tell her that if he wasn’t already the greatest killer of Lannisters alive, that Arya would be undoubtedly vying for that position – but none of that would matter.

This, now, wasn’t about any of those things.

This was personal for Daenerys; a battle with inner demons too long left unchecked.

Demons in the shape of snarling direwolves.

 

**……….**

A heavy boot sunk into Arya’s stomach as she crawled forward, dizzy. The clash of steel surrounded her, humming and sharp, and her movements had a queasy lightness to them that unnerved her even more than the disembowelling that took place above her. Hot entrails spilled across her leather-clad back, and the blood of a stranger matted in her unkempt hair as she reached out, her fingertips brushing Needle’s hilt-

Only to watch it elude her grasp as the muscled leg of her opponent found tender purchase again, punting her with such force she lifted off the ground, a snap of bone echoing loudly in her ears before she landed in a crumpled heap, the wind knocked from her lungs.

Through the choking haze of death and motion, unable to so much as cough the blood or sand from her mouth, she glanced up at the dais above. She saw the Mother of Dragons, hands wrung in a white-knuckled grip, leaning forward in her seat as if about to stand. Behind her, there was a man in layered leather armor, with a strange, curved blade at his hip. He seemed to be looking out past the exhibition and into the stands, motioning for something to move away or fall back. And then, directly to her right, in front of the man in a dress she could only presume was the Queen’s consort, stood Tyrion Lannister – healthy and whole – while she was about to fall before him.

The last wolf of winter.

A failure.

_‘Hate’s as good a thing as any to keep a person going. Better than most.’_

Finally able to pull in a sharp breath, Arya reached down and pulled the dagger from her boot. The stride that stopped beside her was sure, and she watched the warrior’s weight shift as he hefted his axe back, prepared to finish her off. She waited until he was at the apex of his windup, then stabbed through his boot, rending into his foot and tearing viciously through tiny bones and ligaments before pulling herself aside just in time to avoid being cleaved in half.

_‘Do you remember where the heart is?’_

He screamed as he dropped to one knee, his axehead rupturing the earth that had just cradled her. Ripping her knife from his mangled extremity, Arya gripped it in both hands and rose up to her knees, driving it over her head through his chest.

**_‘Kelitis!’_ **

The word is as strange to her as the commanding voice who speaks it, and she wonders at it as weapons fall to the ground around her.

Then, like those weapons, she too falls.

The first thing she sees when she rises again, are a pair of deep violet eyes searching her own.

 

**……**

**AN#2: ‘Kelitis’ = ‘Halt’, in High Valyrian.**


	19. She Who Would be King

Dark blue eyes that reflected shades of purple in the sunlight stared up at the great skull of Balerion, once the Black Dread. Though the rest of the dragon skulls had been returned to their rightful places of honor in the Great Hall once he had been crowned, he had ordered what was left of Balerion to remain in the cellar of the Red Keep.

It discomforted him, the way it felt as if the skulls were watching him every time he sat on the Iron Throne – as if their empty black sockets could somehow see right through him in a way no one else could. This silent accusation had been most prevalent with Aegon the Conqueror’s great beast, which led to his eventual return to the dark King Robert had first banished him to.

He’d hidden within those immense jaws once, when he was young and someone else.

The ancient bones remembered; his old name and fear eternally imprinted on them.

“You’ve always known who I am.” Whispered King Aegon VI Targaryen, known simply as ‘Griff’ to those he kept close, and by his true name only to the one he held closest of all. “And if you could draw but one breath, you’d spend it ending me for this deceit.”

Within the flickering torchlight, he feels a chill that brokers agreement.

Sharp ears hear the soft pad of footfalls, and discern the steady gait of his Queen. She alone was welcome with him when he took refuge from his burdens, heavier than any King who had come before.

She says nothing for a few moments, only steps in behind him and wraps her arms around his waist, her cheek against his shoulder.

It had taken a while for him to get used to the feel of her pressed against him, like this. The glamour granted him height that was not his own, thickened his arms and broadened his shoulders. So long as he was willing to pay the price the old magic demanded, he could manipulate what the gods had given him and maintain the stature expected of a King.

“It was the letter from the Iron Bank, wasn’t it?” Daenerys asks over his shoulder, finally breaking their companionable silence.

“Am I that easy to read?” Is his anxious answer.

“No.” There was a rustle of silk, and Dany tip-toed up to press a kiss to his neck, just below his ear. “At least, not to anyone else.” A pause. “Was there anything in particular mentioned in it that worried you?”

He lets out a sigh, and shakes his head before turning to meet her eyes. “Not a thing. Just an accounting of the Iron Throne’s remaining balance, and notification they were calling in their next payment.”

“Which we expected.” Dany finishes, nimble fingers adjusting the three-headed dragon clasp that had come loose on his shoulder before looking up at him. “So what troubles you?”

He closes his eyes, unnaturally darkened by drops of a concoction he mixed himself, with components pilfered from the Maester’s stores. He is a swordsman, a thief, a mummer, a magician, an alchemist and a killer – all of which have served to crown him, and Daenerys alongside him. It’s not that he feels any guilt for his actions – revenge had always driven him, and the end justified the means – but there is a strain to rule that pulls at him in a way nothing else ever has. Although the blood of old kings ran strong in his veins, he had never been destined to reign; he was a middle child of no real consequence, little more than a spare in a lord’s eyes.

“I’m just tired, I think.” He says, unwilling to burden his wife any further. It is no secret she is the true power that governs Westeros, making up for his own lack of experience at every turn.

“My brother, fool that he was, was right about one thing,” Daenerys speaks softly, as has become her habit whenever they are alone and she wishes to speak truth, “he once called King’s Landing a nest of vipers. I can think of no better way to describe it. There are days I find it hard to navigate through the swells of treachery this city seems to breed; I can only imagine how difficult it is for you.”

She cups his cheek, and he turns into the warmth of her palm. “It’s been too long since you rested,” she says, with undisguised concern. “The enchantment is taking its toll on you.”

“It’s a risk, every moment I dare set it aside.” He speaks truth into her skin.

“A risk you _need_ to take, to recover your strength, lest the illusion take more than you have left to give.” Gentle fingertips trace upward along his jawline, behind his ear, finding the nearly imperceptible ridge of skin there.

His silver brow furrows with apprehension. “Dany, you shouldn’t-”

She tugs carefully, gracefully starting to separate truth from falsehood. “My orders were that we are not to be disturbed,” she says with a sure authority that marks her station, “and I long to see my _true_ king.” She stops for a moment, questioning. “Would you deny me?”

_Never_.

He places his hand over hers in answer, and they both strip away the lie.

Fine silver falls away in favor of unkempt chestnut, and hardened, angular lines smooth and curve. The eyes remain dark, fictitiously Valyrian, but not for long - they’ll fade back to their natural northern grey within just a few short hours, withheld another application.

He becomes she, and she mutters words of an archaic tongue under her breath, tensing as every charm she’s conjured abandons her at once, leaving her breathless and disoriented. Dany’s arms are around her as she stumbles, and she buries her face into her Queen’s neck, breathing her in as she comes back to the self she so often forsakes.

She’s weaker than usual – Dany was right.

There will be no return to the royal apartments tonight; it’ll be hours before she can even consider becoming Aegon again.

The changeling wolf will spend the evening locked between two dragons who see her for what she truly is – one who loves her for it, as she always has, while the other remains an eternal monument of indictment.

And come the dawn, Arya Stark would sit the Iron Throne of Westeros, as King, once more.

 

**……….**

**AN: For those who wanted the next part of the ‘pit-fighter’ series, don’t worry, that will continue the next time I update this fic. This was an idea that just wouldn’t leave me, so I had to go with the muse. If there is interest in seeing more about how this particular scenario came to be, let me know, and I will give it a few more chapters.**


	20. Ave Imperator, Morituri te Salutant – Pt 3

“It was not silver that booked her passage on my ship, your Grace, it was the iron she carried, and the law of _valar dohaeris_.”

Daenerys took in the tattooed Braavosi seated across her council table, and noticed the tremor in his hand as he lifted the cup of wine that had been sitting in front of him, up to this point, untouched.

Near death in the fighting pits had not so much as winded captain Ternesio Terys, yet here, under the safe protection of the Dragon Queen herself, he trembled at the mere question of how Arya Stark came to board his ship.

Just who was it she had saved?

“Iron and law?” Daenerys asked, raising an eyebrow. “Explain this to me.”

The captain set down his mug, his hand steady once again. “Forgive me, Mother of Dragons – I forgot just how far from Braavos we truly are, here.” He looked at her for a moment, the fear that had left his hands now present in his eyes. “She carried an iron coin of _valar morghulis_ – belonging to the Faceless Men.”

“The assassins?” Daenerys felt an unpleasant chill run down the back of her neck as she turned to pin Tyrion with a hard stare. The dwarf shrunk down further into his chair, wordlessly reaching for the wine decanter.

“The very same.” Ternesio confirmed. “I dared not refuse her. No man of Braavos would have.”

Daenerys quickly bound her disquiet in a well-worn cloak of regal dispassion. “No, I would think not.” She reached up and lightly fingered the silver dragon curled around her neck. “Tell me how a Braavosi captain and an assassin fell into the hands of slavers.”

“Ill-winds, your Grace.” Ternesio answered with a sigh. “The _Titan’s Daughter_ was hit by a storm, the night after leaving Saltpans on the western shore. Nearly destroyed my ship… killed most of my men...” his voice trailed off as the memory started to claim him. “We were adrift for days, trying to repair the damage and map out our location. We didn’t even realize just how far off-course we were until the raiders found us.” His brow creased, and his mouth pulled into a grim line. “There weren’t enough of us left to fend them off.”

“I see.” Dany said, considering. “Do you know why the slavers brought you _here_ , of all places?”

Captain Terys shifted uncomfortably. “From what little I could hear,” he said, cautiously, “the decision was entirely profit-based.”

Daenerys’ eyes narrowed, and she felt the heat of the dragon swell within her chest, unbidden. “I have abolished slavery in Meereen.” _And had those who favored it hung for miles, on bloodied crosses, as a warning to any who may question my will in the matter._

“You have,” Ternesio concurred, “which is precisely why the price of any slave capable of wielding weapon _tripled_ the moment you announced the re-opening of the fighting pits. High risk, yes – but high reward as well, for those skilled enough to bypass your Unsullied.”

_Of course._

“I thank you for your candor, Captain Terys.” Daenerys said with a cool grace that hid the slow boil of her blood. “And again, you have my apologies. It was never my intention to have anything but free men competing the in pits.” She motioned to one of her guards. “My men will see you to your quarters. Rest the night, and I’ll see you returned home on the next available ship.” She paused. “I’ll also arrange to have that slaver’s mark removed from your face before you take your leave, if you so wish.”

Ternesio stood, head bowed. “Thank you, your Grace. You’ve done more than enough already; I’ll have the number inked over once I return to Braavos.”

“Very well. Safe passage, Captain Terys.” She watched as he was escorted from her council chamber, her heart a raging, white-hot ember. Once he was gone, leaving only Tyrion and a pair of silent Unsullied in the room with her, Daenerys took hold of her wine goblet and threw it, shattering it against the wall.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion started, “perhaps-”

“-I married into one of their ‘great houses’,” Daenerys spat, cutting him off, violet eyes flaring, “to bring about peace. To _appease_ them.” She took a deep breath, grappling with her fury. “I went against my every instinct, and re-opened the fighting pits, once again, to _appease_ them.”

“You _did_ make the right decision, your Grace, on both counts.” Tyrion emphasized, while prudently keeping himself out of arm’s reach, “the people-”

“-the people continue to defy me at every turn.” Daenerys finished bitterly. “And every compromise I’ve made has only emboldened them.”

“It may seem so, in the short term.” Tyrion said. “But this shall not last. The great masters are like colts; bucking and thrashing, but you _will_ break them in the end.”

“And how long is that?” Daenerys asked, fearing she already knew the answer. “Just how long is it, until ‘the end’?”

“Longer than you’d like.” Was his frank response.

_If I can not keep my word and rule Meereen as a city of free people, then what right do I have to rule the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros?_

The weight of the question was enough to bury her beneath the sands, and now was not the time for it.

She’d tended to one of her unexpected guests, who had been enslaved for the city’s amusement. It was time she addressed the other.

 

**………**

 

_‘Your Grace, a word please, I beg you.’_

_‘About what?’_

_‘About your father. About the Mad King.’_

_‘The Mad King? You’re here to remind me of my enemies’ lies? Consider me reminded.’_

_‘Your Grace, I served in his Kingsguard. I was at his side from the first. Your enemies did not lie.’_

Echoes of her conversation with the late Ser Barristan sounded in Daenerys’ mind, as she looked down at the stirring scion of House Stark. If the old knight spoke true – and deep down, she knew there was no reason to doubt him – then all she’d been raised to believe about the Starks was in question.

What was not in question, however, was that the wounded girl before her, little younger than herself, was somehow linked to the most deadly group of assassins in the known world.

Daenerys stared down at the battered iron coin she’d taken from the bundle of Arya Stark’s belongings, and couldn’t help but wonder if she’d made the right choice earlier in the Pits.

She could scarcely afford to welcome another knife to her throat. There were far too many there already.

A dark brow furrowed, and grey eyes opened slowly to meet her own.

“You’re awake.” Tyrion spoke in the common tongue, taking the initiative. “It’s been a while, Arya.”

The stormy eyes that had held Dany’s own glanced to her side, narrowing. “My name is _Thirteen_.” She corrected with a growl.

“No, that was your slave name, not _your_ name.” Tyrion countered. “You are Arya Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, former lord and lady of Winterfell… and thanks to the treachery of my dead father, the last of your line.”

Arya snarled and bolted upwards, making to grab the dwarf, then winced as her breath caught and she fell back down hard against the pillow.

“Careful, _Arya_.” Tyrion cautioned. “Misdirected hatred will have to wait. Your time down in the fighting pits earned you a few broken ribs, amongst other things.” He gestured around the chamber. “Do you know where you are?”

Teeth grit, Arya shook her head ‘no’.

“Do you know who she is?” He motioned to Daenerys.

Pained grey eyes met violet once more. “ _We fight and die for your glory, oh glorious Queen._ ”

Daenerys nearly dropped the coin she’d been holding.

“That’s right.” Tyrion confirmed. “This is the Queen of Meereen herself: Daenerys Targaryen, the Stormborn, Breaker of Chains, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons – and your personal savior.”

“I didn’t ask for anyone to _save_ me.” Arya ground out, her left hand balling into a fist at her side. “I was managing just fine on my own.”

“You would have been killed.” Daenerys said, sharply. “Faceless Man or not.”

Arya closed her eyes and sighed. “I’m not a Faceless Man.” She said it with a sad sort of resignation. “I was on my way to Braavos to join them when… I ended up here instead.” She opened her eyes and focused on Daenerys again. “If that’s why you stopped the fight – because you thought I could serve as your assassin, then I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Dany’s anxious grip around the coin loosened in her hand. _Nothing more than an invitation then_. She felt a light flood of relief that was anything _but_ disappointing. “No,” she said, the steel gone from her tone, “that wasn’t why.”

“Then why did you?” She asked.

“I…”

“As you likely already know,” Tyrion answered for his liege, “Daenerys has rightful claim to the Iron Throne. Once she has stabilized Meereen, she intends to return to Westeros to rule. You are the heir to Winterfell, and with it, the North.”

“So,” Arya carefully started to sit up, “what you’re saying is that the Queen intends is to marry me, in order to gain control and support of the North to march against Tommen in King’s Landing.” Once the wolf girl was upright, her sheet fell away, leaving her naked to the waist aside from the bandages wrapped around her chest. She blinked in surprise, and gave a slight shake of her head. “Seven hells, she’s already got me half-naked in bed anyways.”

Daenerys flushed, entirely taken off guard by the northerner’s audacity. “No,” she finally asserted, “that is not what he – or _I_ – am saying.”

“-it wouldn’t work anyways.” Arya broke in.

“Of course it wouldn’t!” Dany exclaimed. “I already have a husband-”

“-that man in the pretty dress who sat beside you in the Pits?” Arya smirked, a lean and wolfish thing, as irresistibly feral as the sigil of her house. “Anyone can see he won’t last long. Besides, Targaryens usually marry more than one anyways. No, the reason why your plan won’t work- ”

“That is _not_ my plan-”

“-is because I’m not the heir to Winterfell. My brothers are dead, but there’s still my sister Sansa. She’s the rightful heir to Winterfell; not me. And she may still be alive.”

“That is… quite unlikely.” Tyrion said quietly. “She’s been missing for months.”

“So?” Arya said dismissively. “I was missing for _years_. That’s what happens when you’re an exile. Doesn’t mean that she’s dead.”

Daenerys raised an eyebrow at Tyrion. “She has a point. What makes you so sure she’s not just in hiding as well?”

“I had much more direct knowledge of Sansa’s comings and goings than I ever did of Arya’s.” The dwarf answered her. “Please trust me when I say it is highly unlikely Sansa Stark is still alive.”

“How do you know this, Tyrion?” Daenerys pressed.

Tyrion looked for a glass of wine that wasn’t there, then took a few steps back away from Arya’s bedside. “Because, for a short time, before my father wrongfully accused me of Joffrey’s murder… Sansa Stark was my wife.”

There was a rustle of bedding, and Arya surged forward, launching herself at the dwarf.

“ ** _O_ r _egon!_** ” Dany called out, and two Unsullied gripped the raging Stark, pulling her back before she could reach her target.

“My sister!” The wolf howled, thrashing against her restrainers, heedless of her wounds. “I’ll kill you for this, Imp – I swear it to the Many-Faced God!”

“Arya, stop!” Daenerys commanded, pinning the northern heir under her gaze.

Eyes wild and chest heaving, Arya finally began to still.

Dany spun to face her diminutive adviser. “Why didn’t you mention this to me before _now_?”

Tyrion just shook his head. “It was never consummated. I didn’t touch the girl – it was my father’s arrangement; to keep the North out of the hands of the Tyrell’s. And besides, me being arrested and sentenced to death put a quick annulment to the entire thing. I didn’t think it would matter.”

Dany glanced over her shoulder at Arya, the very definition of savagery still gripped by her Unsullied. “Clearly it does matter!” The Queen snapped.

Before the matter could be discussed further, the door to the chamber burst open, and Grey Worm, still recovering from the skirmish that ended Ser Barristan’s life, followed by Daario and a few Unsullied captains rushed in. “Your Grace,” Grey Worm said, his accent still thick while using the common tongue as Missandei had been teaching him, “forgive me, but it is urgent.”

“Of course.” Dany turned to her captain, setting aside the skirmish she’d just been caught in the middle of. “What is it?”

“Sons of the Harpy, my Queen.” Grey Worm answered. “We find…”

“We found evidence that they were set to attack down at the Pits.” Daario finished for him as he struggled to find the right words. “Had you not ended the match when you did, who knows what might have happened.”

“I will stay with you, my Queen.” Grey Worm said. “With men _I_ choose. Men to trust.”

“These ‘Sons of the Harpy’,” Arya said, staring hard across the room at Daario. “Is that who I saw you waving off, when I was down in the arena?”

 

 

 **…….**  
OUTTAKE  
…….

Ser Jorah sat against the cold stone wall, in the dark beneath the abandoned pits. “This was meant to be my moment.” He said to the silent onlooker.

“I am a beloved character. Don’t you understand that people really care about my storyline?”

He pulled back the edge of his sleeve, revealing his patch of greyscale. “Just how fast does this stuff spread, anyways?”

He sighed. “I’ve been robbed. First Eddard Stark exiles me, now his daughter steals away my moment of glory before the Queen.”

He looked up at the smirking author, silently typing away through his protests.

“Curse you, Starky. Curse you.”

 

**……….**

**AN: Happy Heart Day, Stargaryens.  
**


	21. Bloodlines - Part 5

**AN: It has been pointed out to me that my angst-muffin readers have been neglected for a while. Here I shall make amends.**  
  
**This is not a traditional chapter entry so much as just a couple of scenes, filling in a few gaps before the final chapter concluding this mini-series is posted.**

**………**

 

**Seven years ago – Arya:**

“So it’s true. You really are a Targaryen.” Arya said, finding Jon by the fire he’d been sharing with the few black brothers still left to him.

The bastard looked up with his usual sad smile. “Only half Targaryen. I don’t think I would have been nearly so scared, otherwise.”

The former assassin kicked away a few rocks and twigs, then sat down beside him. “You didn’t look scared.” She paused thoughtfully. “What was it like? Riding a dragon.”

“Daenerys hasn’t taken you up on one yet?”

Arya chuckled. “She did try, once. Drogon would have none of it. He ruined my best cloak – would have ruined my arm along with it, if I wasn’t so damn quick.”

“Well, like I said, I was afraid at first… but then,” his eyes softened, and his expression became wistful, “it just all started to make sense. I stopped thinkin’ so much about it, and just trusted his wings, and my instincts, and by the time it was over, I didn’t want to come back down.” He let out a heavy sigh. “It was incredible.”

“It sounds like it.” Arya said quietly.

“Maybe next time you can try riding with me,” Jon suggested. “Drogon is the most temperamental of the three. I don’t think Viserion and Rhaegal are quite as volatile.”

“Maybe.” Arya said with a shrug.

“But it wasn’t just riding dragons you came out here to discuss, was it?”

There was no point in hiding it. She and Jon had always known each other better than anyone; time and distance could never change that. “No, it wasn’t.”

Jon pulled off his gloves and leaned forward, holding his chilled hands to the fire. “It’s about Daenerys, then.”

“It is.” Arya reached her hands towards the flame along with Jon’s, willing herself to hold them as close as his, even as they started to burn. “I’m in love with her, Jon.”

“I know,” he said somberly. “And she’s in love with you.”

“Then you understand why I need to ask you to refuse her.” Reddened hands curled into fists, knuckles dragging across flame.

“I do.” Jon gave a nod, his shoulders starting to slump. “But it’s not that simple, little sister.”

“But it _is_.” Arya insisted. “All you have to do is say no. Dany isn’t a tyrant; she won’t force you to do anything against your will.”

“Of course not.” He turned to face her, his strange, purplish eyes shining in the inky black that had enveloped the camp. “She’s a good woman, with a gentle heart. You could never love anyone who was less. But she’s also a Queen, Arya, and a Targaryen.”

“I know who she is, Jon. I’ve known since the day I met her. I’ve been the one beside her.”

“Then you, better than most, should also know the burden of responsibility she bears – for the realm, and for her bloodline.”

“She couldn’t have children,” Arya said softly. “That’s what she told me. Now, what, your Red Woman claims to see some prophecy in a fire, and all of a sudden everything’s changed?”

“I don’t know much about blood magic or curses, Arya. But Melisandre _does_. I trust her.” He looked down for a moment, pained. “She’d never have said anything if it wasn’t important.”

In that instant, his pain was a mirror of her own. “You don’t just trust her. You love her, don’t you?”

“I do.” Jon said, as much an ache as an answer.

“And does she love you?”

“She does.”

“Then go with her.” Arya said resolutely. “You should be with the woman you love.”

“Like I said, it’s not that simple, little sister.”

“Why in the seven hells _not_? Jon, please – I don’t care if you’re my cousin, you’re still my _brother_.” She felt a tightness in her chest, and a burning at the back of her throat. There was no need for pride, not now, not with him. “I love her, more than anything. Please, _don’t_ make me do this. Don’t make me stand aside and watch you become her consort, all for the sake of some ridiculous duty she feels she needs to fulfill.”

“It’s not ridiculous.” Jon said. “Nor is it her duty alone, now.”

“What are you saying, Jon…?”

The former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch grit his teeth and hardened his brow. “I’m saying that like it or not, I’m Rhaegar Targaryen’s last living son. And that I have just as much of an obligation to continue the Targaryen bloodline as Daenerys.”

“You don’t. You’re a _Stark_ , dammit!”

Jon shook his head. “Not the way you are. I was never Ned Stark’s son.”

Arya swallowed down the lump forming in her throat. “You’re really going to do it, aren’t you? You’re going to marry the woman I love, you’re going to **fuck** the woman I love, all while claiming it to be your ‘duty’?”

“Arya, how many times do I have to tell you it’s not that simple?”

“How is it not that damn simple, Jon?!”

“I know you love her! I know she loves you! But really, what did you think would happen once she took the Iron Throne? Did you think she was going to take _you_ to the Great Sept to get married? Did you think that Westeros would rally behind her, with _you_ at her side? Arya Stark, Consort to Dragons? What about an heir? I can see why you wouldn’t have been too worried about that before, all things considered, but that’s all changed! You can’t give her a child, Arya, no matter how many of the world’s other rules you break!” A burning log popped, and sparks flew forth between them. Face flushed, Jon rested his head in his hands, pulling in a deep breath.

The wolf sat, stunned, the wind knocked out of her. “Of course,” she said finally, her voice tremulous in a way it hadn’t been since back when she was a child in Winterfell. “Once she’s taken the throne, I don’t have much to offer her aside from my blade, do I?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Jon said remorsefully.

“You did.” Came the deadened response. “You meant it _exactly_ like that.” Arya shifted, and rose slowly to her feet.

At least he had been the one to say it.

It would have killed her, hearing it that way from Dany.

 

**………..**

**Four years ago – Dany:**

Her white cloak was stained with blood, and in the dark of the cell Dany couldn’t tell if it was hers or Jon’s. Heavy manacles shackled her to the great stones of the wall; the other members of her Queensguard believing any threat the wild wolf posed to be neutralized by cold steel, but Dany knew better.

Chains could not hold Arya - not unless she allowed them to.

It was Ser Yronwood who had broken the Queen’s consort and her fierce lover apart, the massive man suffering a barrage of blows the two northerners had meant for each other in the process. Though they often sparred, there was a savagery to this session from the start – sparks flew from their blades from the onset, and first blood drawn only seemed to heighten the inherent rage that was galvanizing their every strike. Despite his strength, Jon couldn’t match years of Arya’s honed speed and agility, and he’d been disarmed and driven to his knees before it became clear that Arya had no intention of gracefully accepting her victory or his surrender.

Her political consort and her lover could no longer restrain themselves - the first snapping out of resentment at playing a role he’d never wanted, the second lashing out of a heartbreak too long carried, and cleaved anew.

Dany was with child again.

“Your Grace,” the wolf said, her voice quiet and battle-husked, “this is no place for you.”

Understanding the cause of her paramour’s grief, the silver queen stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “Right now, my place is with you,” she said with a tenderness that belonged solely to the woman she was, rather than the Mother of Dragons or the Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. “And I need to know what will happen between you and Jon, if I order your release.”

Arya shook her head. “I can’t tell you that, Dany… because I honestly don’t know. So just leave me here for a while.”

Dany reached up, instinctively, to brush away hair that had fallen over the grey eyes she’d come to know as well as her own. “Please, Arya.. you are one of my Queensguard. You’re sworn to protect me; protect the royal family. I need to know that I can trust you in this.”

“I’ll always protect you, Dany. You, and Rhaegar… even your next child.” Arya whispered roughly. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

“What about Jon, Arya?”

“The great Azor Ahai doesn’t need my protection.” The Queensguard spat. “You know that as well as I do.”

“He may not,” Dany’s brow furrowed, betraying her concern, “but he does need you to refrain from killing him in his sleep.”

“If I ever wanted to kill Jon,” Arya said darkly, “you can be certain he’d be wide awake when I did it.”

Dany cupped the wolf’s smudged face in her hands. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. Please. You know you don’t mean it.”

Arya closed her eyes, and gave a slight nod.

And Dany kissed her, soft and sweet, a wordless plea.

But she found there were not enough kisses in the world to make Arya swear her loyalty to Jon.

 

**………**

**Six months ago – Dany:**

“Maester Tarly says that when I grow up, I’ll marry Visenya.” Rhaegar looked up at his mother, grey eyes reflecting young concern. “Is that true?”

“One day, when you’re _much_ older, yes, you will be expected to marry your sister as is Targaryen tradition.” Daenerys confirmed, amused. “But that will not be for a long time yet.”

A small brow furrowed as the boy looked across the room at his little sister playing contentedly with the wooden dragons Arya had carved for them. “But… what if I don’t _want_ to?”

“Rhaegar, one day you will be king, responsible for all of Westeros and everyone in it. You will not be able to live your life based solely on what you _want_. You’ll always need to consider what is best for the realm; for your people, for your family and your legacy.” Daenerys ran a delicate hand through his silver hair. “Do you understand?”

The Targaryen heir nodded. “Duty. Like father would say.”

Daenerys glanced at the doorway, noticing the momentary slump in Arya’s shoulders. Though her back was to them as she faced the bustling halls of the Keep, watching for signs of any possible threat, Danaerys knew she could still hear every word they were saying.

“Yes,” Dany said finally, softly. “It’s about duty.”

The boy was quiet for a few moments, considering. Then: “If I marry Visenya, even if I don’t love her… can I still have someone else too? Like you and Arya?”

Violet eyes widened, and saw her lover stiffen at her post. Although Dany knew there were things she’d need to tell her children someday, she wasn’t prepared to try to explain the complications of taking a paramour to a five year old boy who was proving to be far too clever for his own good. “You may come to love Visenya much more than you can imagine right now, Rhaegar. Don’t worry on such things.”

But the streak of Stark in Rhaegar’s blood had gifted him with a wolf’s stubbornness. “If that’s how it works, then why weren’t you happy enough with father?”

“Rhaegar.” Dany’s tone sharpened. “That’s enough.”

Rhaegar bowed his head. “Yes, mother.” Then he turned away, and strode toward his room.

Daenerys sighed. Although her children loved Arya, they also loved their father – especially Rhaegar. Sons put the men who sired them on pedestals as if they were heroes; it was natural instinct. And in Rhaegar’s case, his father actually _was_ a hero, known the whole realm over.

She had been naïve to think she could somehow mould the family she wanted out of so many conflicting pieces.

She could only hope things would turn out to be a little easier with Visenya.

 

**………**

**One month ago – Arya:**

_Pat-pat._

Sharp ears perked, and a single grey eye slid open in the dark of the royal apartments.

_Pat-pat._

Her sword leaned against the wall beside her, a long, thin shadow under window-spilled moonlight, and a dagger lay beneath her pillow.

_Pat-pat._

Queen Daenerys was pressed to her side, arm draped across her and lips slightly parted, breath warm against her neck in deep sleep.

_Pat-pat._

The tiny footfalls that had roused her came to a hesitant stop, and as her eyes adjusted to midnight’s veil, Arya could make out a tiny version of Daenerys a few paces away from the Queen’s luxurious bed.

_Visenya._

The corner of her mouth tugged into a grin as she saw the little princess climb up the edge of the bed, quiet as a mouse with her stuffed rabbit in hand, and crawl up the twisted folds of red satin until she was nestled in between her and Dany, just the same as the night before. Beside her Daenerys shifted a little, drowsy but accommodating, and tugged the coverlet over Visenya while pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Goodnight mommy,” the little girl whispered softly, eyes already closing again.

A small, clumsy hand reached up and pet the top of Arya’s head. “Goodnight, Puppy.”

 

**………**

 

**Present:**

 

“He’s here, your Grace.” Missandei said with a bow of her head. “Former Consort to Dragons Jon Targaryen has arrived at the Red Keep.”


	22. A Dragon Among Wolves, pt 1

An AU twist on the events at the end of Robert's rebellion. Disgusted at Robert's easy acceptance of the butchery of the Targaryen children Rhaenys and Aegon at the hands of Tywin Lannister’s men, Ned refuses to bend the knee to Robert and instead challenges him for the Iron Throne.

Alternatively – Young!Ned Grows a Pair and Changes Everything

**……..**

_“You should have taken the realm for yourself. It was there for the taking. Jaime told me how you found him on the Iron Throne the day King’s Landing fell, and made him yield it up. That was your moment. All you needed to do was climb those steps, and sit. Such a sad mistake.”_

**………**

 

_Dead women and children._

The battle-hardened Northman stood, staring down at the crimson cloaks enshrouding the tiny, broken figures of Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen, dark pools of blood dampening the passionate hue. The swathed body of their mother, Elia, lay beside their swaddled corpses, her disfigurement apparent even under the layers of fabric – her head was caved in, left as little more than a curved bowl of skull, holding wet, mangled bits that still clung to the satin.

Eddard Stark felt his stomach churn, and bile rise up the back of his throat.

“Is this to be your first act as King, then?” He asked derisively, looking up at the lifelong friend he’d followed into war. “To accept this _butchery_ as some sort of token offering?”

“It had to be done, Ned.” Robert said, squaring his shoulders as if he were still standing on the Trident. “You know that as well as I do. They were Rhaegar Targaryen’s heirs.”

“They were _children!_ ” Eddard roared, his heart pounding in his ears, heavy and erratic. “Slaughtered in their beds, while their mother was violated and split apart!”

“We’re at _war_ , Ned,” Robert’s cheeks grew ruddy as his voice raised into a temperamental bellow. “Thousands have been slaughtered, a good number by your own sword!” He pointed a thick finger at the bundles of gore arranged in front of the Iron Throne. “And how many more would die years from now, had they been spared? How long would it have been before those who think me a usurper would have rallied behind them, and risen up against me?”

“ _If_ that happened, we would have fought them, _together_ ,” Ned countered hotly. “Just as we have now.” Hard grey eyes took the measure of the broad man standing before them. “There is no honor in murder for a ‘maybe’. This was the desperate swipe of a Lion’s paw, and nothing more. Tell me that you see that!”

The conquering Baratheon’s blue eyes narrowed dangerously. “What I see are the Lannisters paying loyal tribute to their new king. Where does _your_ loyalty lay, Ned?”

Though the Stormlander loomed nearly a foot taller than him, Eddard was undaunted. He had never wanted _any_ of this – not the death of his father, not Brandon’s place as Lord of Winterfell, nor his pretty Riverlands bride; not the disappearance of his sister that he knew in his heart was far more than it seemed, or the war that inevitably followed, killing so many in the wake of madness – but it had all happened anyways, dragging him through the crucible, forging him into the man that seven kingdoms needed him to be. “I went to war to remove a tyrant from the Iron Throne,” he said contemptuously. “Not to set another in his place. You’re no king of mine.”

Robert flared, and there was a flash of motion as Jon Arryn stepped between them, quick as the sky-blue falcon that adorned his tabard. “It’s _done_ ,” Jon said. “Right or wrong, they’re gone.” He looked hard at Ned, a note of warning in his tone. “And nothing anyone can say will bring them back.”

Robert sidestepped their mentor, a wordless dismissal of the authority he’d fully outgrown. His massive hand flexed as it reached for the handle of his war hammer. “Well if I’m not king, Stark, then who is?”

Ned’s hand instinctively rested on the pommel of his sword, mirroring the unspoken threat of the Stag. “That’s a good question you need to ask yourself. After I pursued what was left of the Targaryen host back from the Trident into King’s Landing, I found the gates wide open, and the city already taken by Lannister men. The lion of Lannister flew over the ramparts, _not_ the crowned stag. They had taken the city by treachery, and when I rode in to this very hall, it was Jaime Lannister who was seated on the Iron Throne. I was the one who forced him to surrender it. For _you_.” He spat the last bitterly.

“A decision you’ve come to regret, then.” Robert tensed, his grip tightening on his hammer, the mighty killer of princes. “Think you should have climbed those steps yourself, noble Eddard? Taken it all for the North? It’s too late for that now.”

“Is it?” Ned challenged. “You’ve not been crowned, yet.”

“Robert! Ned!” Jon snapped gruffly. “Enough, both of you. You’re tired, you’re grieved, and neither one of you is thinking clearly. Step away from this.”

“Oh, I’m grieved, to be certain,” Ned conceded, “but my mind is clear.” His eyes never left Robert. “I don’t know who you’re becoming, but it is not a man I will follow any longer.”

Robert’s war hammer cut through the air with a low whistle, nearly grazing the quiet wolf’s chin as it passed. “He _took_ Lyanna,” the Stormlord growled, “ _your_ sister. _My_ love. And still you would stand against me? _For them?_ ” There was disbelief buried within the outrage; incredulity over Ned’s inability to justify the carnage he had so easily rationalized himself.

Eddard hardened, the northern ice running through his veins tempering him. “His wife and children took nothing, from anyone. They were wronged as much as we were.” His tongue was a blade, vowels clashing like arena steel as he cut the Stag with the unwelcome truth. “And I thank the gods that Lyanna is _not_ here with you, to see any of this.”

The hammer swung again, in a heavy arc that would have shattered Ned’s jaw if he hadn’t predicted the Baratheon’s ire and taken a step back. The heir to Winterfell brandished his blade, lunging forward. The long handle of the war hammer lifted and angled, barely deflecting the sharpened edge. “Step aside, Robert. Or, for the sake of the realm, I will _make_ you.”

But Robert Baratheon would never fall back, not when he felt entitled to something – Lyanna always had the right of him in that much.

There was a glint of teeth behind the unkempt beginning of a thick, black beard. “So this is what it comes down to, then. After everything we’ve been through together… everything we’ve fought for.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Ned said quietly. “I’d rather it didn’t. Step aside, Robert.” He repeated himself,  trying one last time to appeal to the boy he’d grown up with, to the man who’d been his brother in all but blood. For an instant, he almost believed that he’d done it. There was a nearly imperceptible softening to the cobalt eyes he was searching, as if he’d managed to touch the uncut diamond that was the would-be king’s better nature. But in the space of a blink it was gone, along with any trace of scintillating reason, and Ned knew that all he’d really seen was farewell.

He didn’t even have time to imprint the memory before Robert’s hammer came down at him, set to crush his skull. Eddard used agility to his advantage, pivoting sideways and slashing his blade outward in a tight crescent that would have disemboweled Robert had he been even half as slow as most men his size. The Stag stepped back in the nick of time, and returned Ned’s sentiments with a meaty fist to his temple.

Eddard stumbled,  the angry knuckles striking him with nearly as much force as the hammer he’d dodged. The world around him fell away, blurring into twisted streaks of color. The sudden rush of air in front of him warned of the next attack, and the wolf caught the handle of Robert’s hammer in his crossguard, barely pushing it back with a grimace.

Adrenaline surged through his veins and seared through his disorientation. Although Jon Arryn’s watchful eyes were set upon them both just as they had been for years, this was not the Vale, and this was not a sparring match. If he faltered, it would not be just a training plank broken across his body, it would be steel smashing through his bones and pulping his insides. It would be Benjen left alone at Winterfell, forced to carry the mantle that he struggled to bear up under. It would be Cat, newly widowed, after already losing her betrothed to another king’s madness. It would be Lions ruling the Seven Kingdoms in all but name, their claws subtly tugging at the strings they were already expertly winding around their puppet king.

It would be more dead women and children.

There was a vicious crack, and splinters of jagged bone rained over Ned as he narrowly avoided another blow aimed to split his head open. One of the great dragon skulls lining the walls suffered in his stead, the lower half of its jaw unhinging and hanging precariously from its calcified mooring. Teeth the size of a man’s forearm loosened and fell to the ground as the wolf feinted right, then landed a punch beneath Robert’s ribs. The Stag’s breath was forced from his lungs as he folded over Eddard’s fist, his lips curled around a silent curse.

Seeing an opening, Ned tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword, and set to drive the blade upward beneath Robert’s chin. Before he could reach his mark, the Baratheon’s forehead slammed down into his face, breaking his nose and blinding him in the accompanying geyser of blood. Ned drew back and pulled his gloved hand desperately across his grey eyes just in time to see Robert’s stance widen and hips twist as he brutally swung his hammer outward.

Eddard’s sword was knocked from his hand as he vainly tried to block the weighted hammer. The blunted steel lost no momentum as it was deflected downward, snapping his leg and crushing his knee before it finally came to a halt. The northern wolf collapsed, the shock to his body leaving him unable to so much as take in a breath. He heard panicked voices through his anguish, familiar words that he couldn’t make sense of, all fading into a low hum thrumming beneath the loud rush of his blood.

All except for one.

_Remember that you are a Stark. Comport yourself with dignity at the Vale, and try to stay out of fights._

Eddard saw Robert looming over him, his mouth set in a grim line as he hefted his hammer up over his shoulder, prepared to strike the killing blow.

_But if you do have to fight – **win**. _

The Stag committed himself, bearing down with all of his strength behind one last, barbarous swing. Waiting until the very last instant, Ned rolled himself forward, his bloodied hand reaching out and wrapping around one of the fallen teeth of the skeletal monster Robert had struck. The stone floor cracked behind him under the force of Robert’s impact, and before the burly man could so much as lift his weapon back up from its bludgeoned cradle, Eddard rose to one knee, goring him with the barbed ivory.

Robert wavered, his eyes widening as he leaned forward against Ned, his weight heavy across the quiet wolf’s shoulder. Blood trickled down Eddard’s back, running in a thin river down his collar and staining his skin. Red spittle flew from Robert’s lips, as if he’d intended to say something, but the words were choked and lost as his hammer dropped from his hand and his eyes started to dim.

The burden became too much, and Ned fell back against the floor of the Great Hall, the spasming Stormlord toppling with him into a heap. “I’m sorry,” Ned rasped as he looked over at his childhood friend, his tongue heavy and thick in his mouth. “I never wanted…”

The corner of Robert’s mouth turned up slightly, as he looked beyond Ned as if he weren’t even there. “…Ly… anna…” he whispered brokenly, his voice as soft as the ghost of a smile he wore.

And then he was gone.

Strong hands wound under Ned’s arms, lifting him to his feet. He threw back his head and howled in agony as his crushed leg buckled beneath him, prompting Jon Arryn to serve as a battlefield crutch, ducking his head beneath Ned’s arm as the Warden of the North fell against him.

Wordlessly they made their way across the Great Hall, step by excruciating step, until they reached the base of the dais that led up to the Iron Throne. Gritting his teeth, Ned followed Jon’s lead, forcing himself up each and every one of the high stairs until he reached the Targaryen Conqueror’s seat of power.

A wave of dizziness threatened to drop Eddard right back down the stone steps he had struggled so valiantly to climb, and he broke out into a pained, fevered sweat. Nauseous, he sat upon the throne, feeling one of its blackened blades cut into his lower back as he fought to remain conscious.

Sorrow etched deeply upon his features, Jon Arryn took a knee before his former ward, bowing his head. “Long live the King,” he said.

 

**………..**

 

“Forgive me your Grace, I know the hour is late.”

King Stark turned from the stack of parchments awaiting his seal, wincing as he lifted his stiff, swollen leg. “It’s alright, Jory,” he said, waving in the Kingsguard standing at his doorway. “I’ll not be able to sleep for a while yet.”

“We’ve received word from the men you sent to Dragonstone. The young dragon Viserys was found aboard a ship manned by a few Targaryen loyalists, just off the coast of Braavos. Our soldiers intercepted the vessel, and have taken the boy into custody.”

“And he is unharmed?”

Jory gave a slight nod. “He’s entirely safe, your Grace. Just as you ordered.”

Eddard let out slow breath. “Good. Send word to Lord Reed. After I’ve seen the boy for myself, he’ll be escorted to Greywater to live as Howland’s ward.”

“As you command.” The Kingsguard paused a moment. “There is… one more thing, Lord Stark.” Jory’s brow creased, as it always did when he was unsure how news would be received. “The rumors we heard, about Rhaella Targaryen giving birth just before passing…”

“Yes?”

“They were true. There was another child the loyalists were spiriting away along with Viserys. A baby girl, named Daenerys.”

A flash of a tiny, bloodied shroud laid out before the Iron Throne rose unbidden in Eddard’s mind. His throat constricted as he recalled the small, dark stain on the cold stone floor that still remained, even after countless scrubbings.

_‘We’re at war, Ned. Thousands have been slaughtered, a good number by your own sword!’_

“…wanted to let you decide what should be done, your Grace.”

Ned blinked away the grisly image, swallowing down the sickness that threatened to overtake him.

“Bring the little one here,” he said finally. “She will be staying with us.”   


……..

 

AN: So, I apologize for the long silence. I knew the new job I took would keep me pretty busy – seems I underestimated just how much. It’s going to be a rough summer, but I’ll continue to update as I can.   
In the meantime, I wanted to point out that a few talented and industrious Stargaryen/Danarya shippers have put together a tumblr for the pairing, as well as a message board. Not much happening yet since these are brand new, but if you’re a fan, come join the crew. We will be taking fic requests there, and I may occasionally post some exclusive drabbles/previews there too.   
house-danarya.tumblr.com  
house-danarya.freeforums.net


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